


The Rogue of Ciraea

by klmeri



Category: Black Jewels - Anne Bishop
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Gen, Rogues in Kaeleer, SaDiablo Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klmeri/pseuds/klmeri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The small Dhemlan province of Ciraea harbors a band of rogues in revolt against the Province Queen. When events begin to spiral out of control, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan must step in to assess and handle the situation—which will be unfortunate for someone because the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is none other than Terreille’s Sadist, Prince Daemon Sadi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Masterpost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the **bjt_bigbang** in 2011.

 

 **Title** : The Rogue of Ciraea  
 **Author** : **klmeri**  
 **Fanart** : **ebonredseeker**  
 **Fanmix** : **eschelon** and **klmeri**  
 **Banner** : **klmeri**  
 **Beta** : **masteralida**  
 **Rating** : PG-13  
 **Fandom** : Black Jewels  
 **Characters** : SaDiablo family, OCs  
 **Word Count** : 62,375  
 **Disclaimer** : Anne Bishop is creator and owner of the Black Jewels World and the canon characters therein; this story is not written for profit, nor shall be marketed for profit. It is for entertainment purposes only and is a not-so-subtle homage to Anne's genius.  
 **Summary** : The small Dhemlan province of Ciraea harbors a band of rogues in revolt against the Province Queen. When events begin to spiral out of control, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan must step in to assess and handle the situation—which will be unfortunate for someone because the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is none other than Terreille’s Sadist, Prince Daemon Sadi.  
 **Timeframe** : Assume Daemon has been the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan for several years.  
 **A/N** : Written for [bjt_bigbang](http://bjt-bigbang.livejournal.com/); Foremost, I want to thank my talented beta **masteralida** for her unerringly solid critique and ability to rein me in when I strayed too far into fandom bliss; **eschelon** , you are a _dear_ and a _saint_ for enduring my complaints, grievances, and general dominating self during the writing process; to **not_from_stars** , without your encouragement to seize my dream and write it, this fic would not have been born; much love and respect to my very good friend **dark_kaomi** who provided excellent writing advice as well as loyal support and interjections of rational thought into my incoherency; a stout and heartfelt thank you to **_my readers/friends from other fandoms_** who still lent un-ending cheer and well-wishing to my pursuit of fic-dom elsewhere; and finally, to **klmeri** , myself, it is necessary to say... " _you did good._ " :)

~~~

 **Fanart** : [here](http://ebongraywings.deviantart.com/art/BJTBigBang-The-Rogue-of-Ciraea-199750517).  
Thank you, **ebonredseeker**! You rock! :D

 

 **Fanmix** : [The Heart of a Rogue](http://writer-klmeri.livejournal.com/77140.html)


	2. Masterpost

  
**JEWELS**

White  
Yellow  
Tiger Eye  
Rose  
Summer-sky  
Purple Dusk  
Opal*  
Green  
Sapphire  
Red  
Gray  
Ebon-gray  
Black

*Opal is the dividing line between lighter and darker Jewels because it can be either.

When making the Offering to the Darkness, a person can descend a maximum of three ranks from his/her Birthright Jewel.

Example: Birthright White could descend to Rose.

 

_Above is taken from the preface of Anne Bishop’s Black Jewels novels._

 


	3. Prologue

**Kaeleer**

_One and a half centuries ago_  


 

Night has fallen. The Warlord Reed, Steward to the Queen of Ciraea, raps once upon the half-open door.

*Come.*

The Queen does not turn to face him; instead, she remains at the open terrace. Her body casts a long shadow in the moonlight. The darkness of it mutes the vibrancy of the parlor. Reed shivers.

*Is it done?*

He feels that his answer must have weight, solidity. "Yes, Lady."

*You have seen… the body?* There is a hesitant pause along the thread. He steps forward, tastes the essence of her psychic scent. No remorse, no guilt—only a lack of feeling which disturbs Reed.

*No, my Queen. The body was lost in the pull of the river.* He closes his eyes briefly, ignores the lingering echo of men yelling and Prince Fallon barking orders, of the despair and horror which had rolled upon him in waves. It was a horror he truly shared, for all the deception his role required.

She is silent.

He offers quietly, *I am sorry, Phae, I—*

*No matter. It is done, as you say.* The woman turns her head then, that strong chin aligned with her bare shoulder.

She is beautiful, even now. Reed swallows hard.

*Forget this night's work, Lord Reed. Tomorrow is a new day.*

He bows and accepts his dismissal with weariness and an aching for fresh air.

Tomorrow is indeed a new day; it is the beginning of a lie, of a mother's public grief, and the final step to Phaedra's plan. Yes, tomorrow may save them all, for a time, but he shall never forget the events of tonight.

_Everything has a price._

He hopes that the reward will be sweet enough, for the debt they owe the Darkness and the soul of one young child is heavy.

Later, at the hint of dawn, Reed manages a short, fitful sleep. His dreams are of long-bladed knives and a familiar face etched with terror. When that mouth opens, asks _Why?_ so plaintively—heart-breakingly, Phaedra's words float from him unbidden.

_It is done._


	4. Chapter One

_Kaeleer_

_present_

**1 / Ciraea**

" _Jakob!_ "

The young man flinches and drops his rag into a bucket. Ali, a barmaid of an age with Jakob, giggles as she sweeps past him to the bar. "What did you do, Jak, to make Theia sound like _that?_ "

Jakob turns his gold eyes to her. The thin white scar along his jaw-line crinkles when he smiles. "Don't know, Lady. Mistress Theia blames me for everything, whether it's short change or a misplaced rack of meat buns."

"Because usually it _is_ your fault," Ali shoots back. She stacks ale mugs onto her tray. "No need to play the innocent with me, Jakob. We all know you are a mischievous little boy at heart!"

The Warlord Prince bares a hint of teeth. "I'm a grown man."

"Men, boys," Lady Alia says with a sigh. "Usually the same thing. _Mother Night._ If I had a silver mark for every time that Whit did something so utterly _childish_ —" She breaks off as she slides the heavy-laden tray off the bar.

Jakob is at her side in an instant, attempting to take it away from her.

"I've got it!" the witch snaps.

The tray becomes stuck in mid-air. Jak's eyes twinkle.

"Stubborn male, I swear—"

"Now don't swear, sweetheart." Jakob waits until Ali rolls her eyes and drops her hands, then he releases the tray and heads to the kitchen with Ali stomping behind him. "What would you do if your fiancé came in and found you putting old Herb to shame?"

Old Herb is a retired sailor who smells like leather polish and has a fascinating repertoire of vulgar language. Most little boys in town end up with a mouth full of soap after an hour or two of listening to Herb's tales.

Alia snorts and says something extremely unflattering about bossy males. Jakob grins. He un-stacks the mugs into the sink. When he's done, Ali shoos him out of her way. The witch calls over the sound of running water, "Go apologize to Theia before she makes us all miserable!"

He makes a rude noise, walks through the swinging door—and straight into the Mistress of the Rose & Thorn Inn in the riverside town of Havenstry.

"Jakob."

He is too busy watching a large rolling pin go _smack-smack-smack_ against her palm to reply.

"Jakob, Lawl says that you _borrowed_ two barrels of ale."

Damn. He shouldn't have forgotten that the bartender takes no sides.

"Well," he clears his throat, "you see…"

Theia sighs and lowers the rolling pin. "Jak, I cannot afford to keep replacing so many kegs."

"I'm sorry, Theia. I really am. You know why—"

"Yes," she says softly, "I do. But don't ever speak of it aloud, Prince. Don't."

He nods in understanding. "You can take the expense out of my pay."

She shakes her head. "No." Before Jakob can protest, Theia adds, "Your wages are little enough, Jak. However—" When the Mistress chuckles to herself, he resists the sudden urge to backpedal. "—you will be performing a bit of free labor."

Ah shit. "Theia!" It's not quite a whine.

"Don't complain to me, Prince. It's your own doing."

He'd rather chew off his foot. "I'll chop wood for the winter!"

"You did that last time. We're stocked and it's still the middle of the summer."

"I—uh, I'll tend the bar. Give Lawl the night off."

"Do I look stupid, boy? I'd be missing more than two kegs of ale an hour into your shift!"

"Aw, Theia…" That was absolutely not the sound a Warlord Prince makes, but right now Jakob is less of a warrior and more of a boy facing a day of icky chores. Only it's no chore he will be doing. Chores he can handle, no matter how dirty or unpleasant. Baking? He hates it with a passion.

And he is _good_ at it too.

"You've got talent, Jak," Theia says with an unnatural glee. "If you'd only agree to—"

"No!" It's not quite a growl.

Theia smiles. "Suit yourself, hon. But you'd be the most popular Warlord Prince in town!" She winks, suddenly seeming so much younger than her twenty-two centuries.

Jakob sighs. He knows a lost battle when he sees one.

That never makes it any easier to accept.

 

 

"I want them found!" Phaedra snaps to her Master of the Guard.

Nyx, a hard-eyed man, simply bows in the face of his Queen's anger.

Reed wipes at the sweat on his forehead. Nyx unnerves him; and the fact that the cold-blooded bastard shares the Queen's bed is almost… disgusting.

But he had little say in the Warlord Prince's appointment to Master of the Guard. The Steward did try to warn his Queen of the possible repercussions of granting Nyx a position in the triangle of power. Phaedra had simply said, as she watched guards remove the body from the courtyard, "I need a replacement for Fallon. Nyx has proven his loyalty. He stays."

Sometimes Reed catches the intense look that Nyx fixes on Phaedra. Is it possible that the Warlord Prince feels the pull of her? That Phaedra is truly the Queen who holds his leash?

Then what does that say about Phae?

Reed sighs and closes his ledger. He tells the livid woman, "It's more than a matter of the rogues stealing goods, Lady. The people of Ciraea are—"

At the icy look she shoots him, Reed feels his heart pound unnecessarily hard. He clears his throat, continues. "The people of Ciraea are… relating to the rogues and their cause."

Her words are sharp like a blade. "And what _cause_ would that be, Warlord?"

The Steward says as gently as he can, "Slandering your good name and undermining your authority."

Phaedra says nothing. He knows that she understands the politics of her province much more thoroughly than any other person. After all, how often has the Queen played a game or two in her favor? To keep her seat of power?

Reed punches down the memories which still have the power to haunt him. He cannot afford to be distracted, not when Phaedra seeks blood.

The Queen rises suddenly, and the males in the council chamber scramble to their feet. "I wish for privacy at this time," she announces.

They bow low as she walks past. At the door, Phaedra turns back to them. "Rogues against the Queen will not be tolerated in any province."

 _Not unless there is ample cause._ Lord Reed keeps his silence.

"If we do not… quell these males soon, word will pass onto my Sisters. I cannot have that, gentlemen." Her eyes are frozen. "Then it will be only a matter of time until the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan turns his attention upon us."

Even Prince Nyx goes pale.

Reed clutches at his traitorously trembling hands.

"I doubt we would survive an inquiry from Prince Sadi." With those final words, Phaedra leaves them.

Reed sinks back into his chair.

No, Daemon Sadi must be kept out of Ciraea. He, like every other Dhemlan, has not forgotten the rumor of the Black-Jeweled Prince's rage in Amdarh some years ago.

The room stinks of fear. At least Reed is not the only man who will worry long into the night.

The rogues must be dealt with discreetly. But he knows that they may not be able to repair the damage already done. The people of Ciraea are restless, ill-content.

And Phaedra, appointed Queen of Ciraea for the last two centuries, will not relinquish her power without a fight.

 

 

Prince Jakob sets down a barrel of ale and cracks his neck with a grimace. Lawl is busy at the other end of the bar, filling customers' orders.

Theia catches the tail-end of a thought on a distaff-to-spear thread. It is aimed at Jakob. *Quit hiding back there and get to work!* Theia snorts at the look that Ali shoots towards the young male from across the noisy room.

Jakob snarls. "Tell that wench I _am_ working."

Theia does not laugh, though she wants to. Jakob and Ali are no better than two children. Brother and sister, by temperament. She did right, Theia smiles softly to herself, by taking them both in. And Alia will make a good daughter-in-law. That is, if she and Whit ever get around to officiating their hand-fasting. Theia longs for grandchildren, but she would never pressure either her son or Ali.

There is time enough.

It's another busy night at the Inn. Theia is pleased. They might actually turn a profit. While the Inn has always been fairly popular in their river-side town, she is well-aware that the increase in business has little to do with Jakob's baking skills. Business at the Rose & Thorn Inn is proportionate to the amount of gossip to be shared.

These days the entire province of Ciraea is riled with talk. Queen Phaedra's latest proclamation has stirred the hornet's nest. Any male suspected of involvement with the pirating activities across Ciraea will be subject to more than a night's imprisonment in local cell holdings. The male shall be immediately escorted to the Queen's residence for questioning by the Master of the Guard. And every Ciraean man and woman knows that Prince Nyx's "questioning" is more likely to involve torture than interrogation.

The Queen's favor has slowly waned over the last few decades, after the trial and execution of Prince Fallon. But as a long-lived race, the people of Ciraea are slow to act until need for change is ripe. By Blood law, they cannot demand that their chosen Queen step down without due cause. For a Queen to relinquish her rule is a serious matter; a case must be presented against the Province Queen to the Territory Queen, as dictated by hierarchy. Since Dhemlan has no Territory Queen, the duty would fall to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. No one finds fault enough with Phaedra that they have the balls to approach Daemon Sadi.

This, Theia feels, is partly why anarchy is consuming the province. Daemon Sadi is a dangerous unknown. His father had ruled Dhemlan in name for so long—an intangible presence. When the High Lord returned to Kaeleer, it caused a small shockwave through Dhemlan; they were reminded that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is more than a myth. Sadi, since accepting the position in his father's stead, has shown this Territory on more than one occasion what a Black-Jeweled temper can do.

It has scared people, and trust in general is a slow thing to build.

Unfortunately, Phaedra shows no intention of stepping down. She has never allowed a Queen-in-training into her Court or invited another Queen's interest in Ciraea. Then there is a sudden influx of new additions into the higher Circles of the Court as Phaedra prunes the older and less enamored members. All these instances paint a picture that bodes ill. Phaedra clearly wishes to remain as Queen of Ciraea into the next century and is arming herself to this extent.

In light of the newest round of the Queen's commands, Ciraea roils with unease.

Theia has been listening to her regular customers talk for years. She has shared some of their concerns, as a business owner and head of a household.

"How can I feed my family with these extra tithes?"

"When did the vegetable harvest become taxed?"

"Why are we paying for goods we don't use? Are we expected to buy them too?"

Queen Phaedra is not a bad Queen, not in the way that caused people to disappear after that Witchstorm ten years ago. But the Queen's will is law, and the people depend on Phaedra to act responsibly and with care for her subjects. Theia suspects that the extra profit that Phaedra has been collecting is going to a personal purpose. Perhaps to secure the woman's future, when the money should be funding new supplies for the schools or be available for loans to fix up the older districts of Ciraea.

It is little wonder, then, that each new exploit by the band of mysterious rogues is met with a growing sense of approval from the Ciraeans. Were the rogues merely acting on selfish impulses alone, they would have been ousted by their loved ones and summarily punished for their crimes. But the piracy acts have proven to benefit the lower classes of Ciraea—that is, the majority of Ciraea. The rogues are the collective voice of displeasure and protest against Queen Phaedra. The rogues are all Ciraea has at the moment.

There are no District Queens with whom they can seek guidance, ask to speak on their behalf; there have been no District Queens since the beginning of Phaedra's reign. Theia easily remembers the way Phaedra rose in Ciraea society, like a gleaming star in the night. The witch had charm and appeal. She has insisted that if they allowed her to be Queen that she, and she alone, would care for Ciraea as a mother does for her babe.

It was a grave mistake, one that no Ciraean could have known at the time. _Well, maybe one_ , Theia thinks wryly. Theia had not heeded Moira's warnings. The local Black Widow had said, "Phaedra is a disease that gives no sign of illness yet slowly festers inside."

Now, when people ask Moira for her opinion, the witch merely shakes her head. "The path was chosen; we cannot turn back. We must meet our fate."

Moira's words are direr than most villagers want to hear. Theia shivers.

It worked, for a while. People were happy enough, as Queen Phaedra ruled fairly. District Queens were abolished, but after the shock wore off, people accepted that. After all, haven't they long accepted that they are the only Territory not to have a Territory Queen? Instead each district appointed a council which took the people's concerns directly to the Queen and her Court.

But good things do not always last. People change—especially those with a hunger for power.

"Is something wrong, Theia?"

She starts, catches Jakob's look of concern. At her hesitation, he reaches across the bar to take her hand, pats it as if soothing an upset child.

"I'm fine, Jak. Just thinking of… Ciraea."

His eyes darken, and Theia wishes she could take back her words. She does not know why, but Jakob feels deeply for the people of Ciraea—an almost personal responsibility. Some days she wants to ask, but she promised him long ago, that first night she gave him a place to sleep and food to eat, not to ask about his past. Back then he was just a boy-turning-man and alone.

"We're taking care of Ciraea." His voice is quiet but she hears the promise in his words.

Her eyes close as her heart aches. They've argued about this before. "Not the proper way, Jakob. If only someone would go to—"

His snarl is terrible and low. Theia stands her ground.

"He won't help us. Hell's fire, Theia, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan hasn't been to see this province in person for years."

"You cannot judge him based on that alone," she says quietly.

"Can't I?" he snaps and turns his back.

Theia stares at those tight shoulders for a moment. When a young girl comes scurrying out of the kitchen, yammering about burnt bread, Theia lets go of the breath that she had been holding. The Inn demands her attention and Jakob would not be thankful for her pestering. So she marches to the kitchen to handle the next crisis.

 

 

His vision is tinted red.

Jakob clenches his jaw. Sadi is a selfish, twisted Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince who cares nothing for the people of Ciraea. There's no one but him, only him, to right the injustice that Ciraea is suffering. That the Queen—

At the sound of a sharp _crack_ , his eyes snap open. _When did they close?_ In his hands is a piece of the barrel rim, which he had broken in his flash of rage. He tosses the wood into the trash, takes a deep breath. But the chattering and the mix of too many psychic scents in the air are scraping at raw nerves.

He places his hands flat against the bar counter and scans the jovially drunk groups of people. When Jakob catches the glimpse of a familiar weathered face, something inside him uncoils. Half of the clients tonight are workers from the docks, so the man does not stick out. Jak quickly finishes reattaching the pump to the barrel and gives it a satisfied pat.

"Goin' to help Ali," he calls to the bartender. Lawl shrugs and Jak hops over the bar. He idly cleans up a few spills and chats with one or two people.

When he passes by a particular table, Jak stops and asks "Refill, sir?"

The Warlord glances at him before looking back down at calloused, dark hands.

At the slow nod, he calls in a pitcher of ale and pours the Rose & Thorn Inn's popular dark brew into the empty mug. The Warlord remarks off-handedly, "Shipment comin' in a fortnight."

"Oh?"

The man grunts.

Jakob sets down a full tankard of ale next to one Jeweled fist. "Harvest crops?"

"Too late for harvesting," is the only reply.

The Warlord Prince nods once.

That gruff voice wants to know, "You'll be passin' along my thanks?"

Jakob' eyes are molten gold as he replies softly, "I will. And _my_ thanks to you, Warlord."

The Warlord says nothing, merely takes a long swallow of his ale before slapping a few coins on the table to pay for his drink. Jakob vanishes the money, watching the fellow shoulder his way back through the crowd and disappear into the night.

 

 

It's in the early morning hours, close to dawn, when the tavern portion of the Inn closes its doors. Jakob completes his last task and slips out the back.

He rakes a hand through his short hair as he strolls through the dockyard. He checks once behind him, closes his inner barriers tightly and wraps a sight shield around his body. The Opal Jewel against his tan skin glows in the pre-dawn dark.

A Prince is propped against the railing, lazily surveying the river past the docks.

Jak calls softly *Eyan.*

The man's head tilts slightly to the right, but that body stays relaxed. They have played this game many times. The secrecy is necessary.

*Jak?*

*There's word on the product from Little Terreille. Should be here in two weeks or so. Can you dig around?*

*Sure.* A hesitation. *Do you want me to gather the men?*

*No, not yet.*

Silence stretches. Jakob is sliding back into the shadows along the dock when Eyan calls out on a spear thread. *You can't keep Charon leashed much longer.*

Jak does not answer.

Lord Charon is becoming a problem. The Warlord's hatred for the Queen gives him some common links with them, but Charon is driving for a full-scale declaration of war—which would be a drastic mistake. There has to be a way to save Ciraea without damaging the people. The Warlord Prince knows that if Charon slips his leash, Jakob may be forced to show his hand too soon.

That cannot happen, not until he is ready. Not until Phaedra is properly cornered and all of Ciraea is watching.

  
  


**2 / SaDiablo Hall**

Daemon signs his initials on the document and places it to the side. A headache is growing behind his eyes. The influx of paperwork has become routine over the years, especially during the months directly after Winsol.

Winsol. Daemon pauses halfway through his perusal of a letter as his mind recalls the spider silk gown his wife had worn. Or rather, that lovely sweet skin under the dress and how much he enjoyed tasting it after the dancing had ended.

A knock on his study door interrupts his daydream. Daemon has to clear his throat before he can manage a proper "Come."

"Prince."

Ah, Beale. The butler is stoic-faced per usual as he presents a sealed envelope.

"Your secretary's report."

Daemon accepts it and nods his thanks.

The report is from both his second-in-command and secretary, but Surreal cannot be bothered to write anything down. Daemon recalls in particular how she expressed her incredulity over his suggestion. It ended with Daemon agreeing to buy her a fancy dinner for upsetting her nerves.

Which is ridiculous because no Dea al Mon witch suffers from a case of upset nerves. But Daemon knows when to concede a battle with a witch, especially one of Surreal's temperament.

He leans back in his chair and reads the report. Reads it a second time, front and back. The report is then vanished; later he will ask his father for an opinion on it. Daemon narrows his eyes and scratches at his chin with a long, black-tinted nail.

Rainier hints that trouble may be brewing in one of Dhemlan's provinces but his secretary "cannot confirm the rumors as of yet."

Ciraea.

That name means little to him, except that its Queen is a beautiful woman who sets him on edge. He stayed once in her residence, after first accepting the role of Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Thereafter, if any matter requires his presence, he swore that he would have Beale alert the nearest family estate. But Ciraea has not required the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan in person, and Rainier and Surreal have handled the yearly visits to that province. Nor has Queen Phaedra—yes, a name he has not forgotten—come to SaDiablo Hall to address a concern with him.

Sadi closes his eyes and rubs the back of his neck.

With his unfortunate luck, in all likelihood circumstances are about to change.

  
  


**3 / Ciraea**

"Tell me again why we're here?"

Rainier sighs. "Lady, you wanted this job."

Surreal picks at her nails with her stiletto. Rainier is thankful they are not in public while she does this. The pair have a hard enough time doing their work without Rainier having to soothe male nerves too.

"I'm not complaining about the job, Prince. Though I should demand a pay raise for dealing with the kind of incompetent fools that we have to."

Mother Night.

Rainier does not know exactly what Sadi pays her, but considering the roomy house they share and how often she drags him to Amdarh for a shopping spree, he wonders if Daemon shouldn't be going broke by now.

"Then what's the matter?"

Surreal drops her hands into her lap. "I'm bored."

He stares. "You're serious."

"Deadly." That half-smirk of hers does not make him feel better in the least.

"You can stay at the hotel if you prefer, Surreal. I can—"

The witch snorts. "Absolutely not. I can't keep an eye on you if I am lounging in the hotel, sugar."

Rainier sputters. "Excuse me?"

She turns amused gold-green eyes on him. "How's it feel, Prince?"

He narrows his eyes in return.

Their staring contest is broken by the slight jerk of the Coach as it stops. No matter. This isn't the first time they have had one, and most certainly won't be the last. Of that, Rainier is sure.

He steadies himself on the door and eases out of the Coach. Surreal accepts his hand as she descends and then links their arms. Her gait, after many companionable years, is perfectly matched to his. Rainier feels a pang for a brief moment that he no longer has the dancer's stride he used to, but that passes easily enough.

Watching Lady SaDiablo narrow her eyes at the hotel's receptionist, there is no regret for the price that he paid. 

Surreal purrs lethally to the white-faced man, "Would you like to explain to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan why you cannot accommodate his second-in-command and secretary? Because, sugar? I'd be more than happy to call him for you."

Rainier bites back a laugh and decides that he'd better save the trembling man before the fellow passes out. Ah, yes. Prince Rainier has no idea why Surreal pretends that their jobs are boring. His, at least, is just that more daunting because he not only has to handle delicate Court business, but he also has to maneuver through the disaster in one particular witch's wake.

May the Darkness be merciful.

He fervently hopes that the strange feel to the air in Ciraea is just his imagination. If not… Well, he may just demand an increase in salary, too.

 

 

"Lady. Prince." The Steward of the Court executes the proper bow to those who represent the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. "I am very sorry. I must have misread the date of your visit. We are not prepared to see you both until next month."

Reed hopes that none of his anxiety is tainting his scent. Their visit is unexpected and… not at the best of times, to say the least. But it would not do to tell them that they are unwelcome and to come back later.

The Warlord Prince, a man with shoulder-length brown hair and green eyes, smiles at him and that eases Reed's nerves somewhat. "Our decision to visit Ciraea was rather sudden, Lord Reed. We are… touring, shall we say?" Prince Rainier assures him, "Our official meeting with Queen Phaedra will remain as scheduled."

 _Unless we decide otherwise_ goes unsaid. Reed knows that as well as Sadi's representation does.

The woman, Lady Surreal SaDiablo, is no longer paying attention to either one of the males. She is strolling up and down the hall, almost casually. Too casually.

"Lady?"

"Hmm?"

He cannot even complain that she does not give him the courtesy of a proper answer. He doesn't _dare_ complain, not with the Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince watching him and the knowledge of the kind of power the family who backs Lady Surreal wields.

"Lady, how may I serve?" Protocol.

The witch laughs. "Stop fretting, sugar. I don't bite."

He has heard otherwise but wisely holds his tongue.

"Would you care for some refreshments? Oh!" He makes it sound as though the thought has just occurred to him. "Lodging arrangements. We have several suites open for guests…"

Lady Surreal wanders back over to the Warlord Prince, slips her arm into his and addresses Lord Reed. "No need. We have a hotel that will do." She smiles up at Prince Rainier but her smile drops when she turns back to him.

Of course he knows about their hotel. He knew the minute they arrived so close to the Queen's residence. It is his business to know these things—especially now, with the Court's fate balanced on a knife's edge.

"Well," he says with sincerity. "If you wish to speak with the Queen, she will have time for an audience tomorrow afternoon. And if you need anything else, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask us for assistance."

Rainier nods. "A short audience with Queen Phaedra would be most appreciated, Lord Reed."

He swallows, forces a smile on his face. "Of course. I will send a confirmation of the details to your hotel." As they turn to leave, he adds, "I hope your stay in Ciraea is pleasant."

The witch replies, her Gray jewel glinting in the morning light, "So do we."

Lord Reed returns to his study and collapses in a chair. This is not good, so much worse than he had imagined. Phaedra won't be pleased. And Sadi's snoops won't be easy to deter either.

He wishes, for a moment, that he had drowned himself in that river all those years ago. But he had been too much of a coward to do it, to deny Phae her will.

He is still a coward.

Reed pours himself a shot of whiskey—a liquor he usually indulges in when the night-terrors are fairly severe—and steels himself to face his Queen with the bad news.

 

 

Surreal remarks casually, "The Steward looked like a man who'd been told the date of his execution."

Rainier raises an eyebrow. "Really? I thought that perhaps he was suffering an… unfortunate irritation of the bowels."

She laughs and smacks his arm. Surreal knew there had to be a good reason that living with a Warlord Prince bordered on acceptable. "Shit, sugar. Don't make me cry. I just touched up my makeup."

They continue to stroll down the avenue in companionable silence.

But there is something still niggling at her. Something that seems… off. "What do you think he's hiding?"

"I don't know."

That's no help. Sometimes pulling an opinion out of a tight-lipped Warlord Prince is impossible until you threaten his balls or something he considers equally important. She snorts at that thought. On the other hand, there are times when getting the bossy-stubborn Warlord Prince to NOT share his opinion—or poorly disguised command—is an ordeal all on its own. Those are moments when Surreal ends up waving a sharp blade around like she means business.

But back to the discussion at hand, because Surreal is now positive that there is a problem afoot. "Reed must know that we have heard the rumors."

"About the rogues?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, sugar—the one that says Phaedra has a cock under her dress."

He's laughing at her again. Rainier always seems to be laughing at her. Surreal narrows her eyes.

Rainier coughs once, quickly. "It is possible. In fact, if I had to guess, I would say that Lord Reed finds our presence in Ciraea intimidating."

"No shit." She releases her hold on his arm and points across the street. "Before we start talking business, let's eat. If I remember correctly, this place serves some fantastic tarts." She is already halfway across the street when Rainier catches up to her.

He looks annoyed that she decided to ignore his right to escort her. So Surreal shoots him a look with which he is very well-acquainted.

Rainier lets her go first into the restaurant. Smart male.

Surreal smiles to herself. She has become fairly adept at this game between witches and snarly males.

 

 

Jak walks into one of the unoccupied rooms of the Rose & Thorn Inn, shuts and Opal-locks the door. Besides himself, only two males in this room could possibly break that lock. Eyan wears Birthright Purple Dusk descended to Opal—the darker Opal. Charon wears the Green.

But if Charon's smart—and Jakob has had his doubts over this—then the Warlord won't challenge him. Jakob is a Warlord Prince, not just the leader of their little band.

Charon breaks the silence. "The ship is passing by Mist Falls two nights before the new moon. I say we stall it there."

Jakob slips a hand into his trouser pocket and leans against the door. "Mist Falls is too heavily guarded a port, Warlord."

"That's the point!" Charon snarls. "If we can steal the goods there, then it will send a message to all of Ciraea that we are not to be taken lightly!"

He keeps his voice mild, though Charon's pacing scratches at his temper. "We'll accomplish our task, Charon, but I won't risk the men's lives so foolishly."

"Who are you to dictate—"

Jak launches himself off the door. Eyan steps between them.

"Fighting amongst ourselves gets us nowhere." Eyan says this as he lightly shoves at Jak's chest. Jak flares his nostrils but steps back.

The air is cold. "Charon, I don't give a damn who you think you are compared to us. You're free to go back to your society whenever it pleases you." Jakob snarls that last sentence. "This business is rogue business. Don't you understand? We cannot flaunt ourselves to the public. We have families to protect, need to protect just as much as Ciraea itself. Do you want your little sister to end up whoring on the streets because you can't keep your damn mouth shut?"

Charon's face reddens. "I'm sacrificing a lot by simply being here tonight, you bastard."

Jak doesn't flinch. This man may not know it, but Jakob knew his own father—remembers vividly the last time the man stroked his hair and said "Be a good boy, Jak." In a way, what he is trying to do today is as much about his gentle father as it is about fighting Phaedra's chokehold on Ciraea.

"You want what we want, Charon. If we work against each other, then Phaedra wins." He sweeps an eye over the dozen or so men in the room.

"I need a man on the inside of that ship. One of ours."

A Warlord named Traye steps forward. "I've got a cousin that works in a port south of here. I can get myself recruited when they stop for a cargo check."

Jak nods. Traye is new to the band and young, about fifty years his junior, but Eyan brought him in and Jakob trusts the Prince's judgment.

"We'll take over the ship two ports shy of Mist Falls."

"At Halesford," Eyan says with approval.

"Yes." He paces to one side of the room and back. "You all know how this works by now. No killing. We are not murderers, not in the name of justice." _Not yet._ "And what we take goes back to the people." He stops, looks each man in the eye. "Understood?"

The men nod, even Charon despite the fire in his eyes.

"All right. That's it then." Several sets of shoulders relax. A few men push a table into the center of the room and grab chairs. Jakob grins. "Who's the first man out?"

It's Eyan who looks sheepish. "That'd be me, Jak. The wife'll have my head on a platter if I'm late for Rani's recital."

Jakob snorts. "That tonight?"

"Yeah. You'd never guess by the sound of her practicing. Mother Night, I've heard cats in heat that sound better."

That earns a few chuckles from around the room. Rani is Eyan's stepdaughter whom he loves dearly, but Eyan is also a man of blunt truth. Besides, everybody on this side of the wharf has heard the girl's singing and… well, no man envies Eyan his fatherly duty.

"May the Darkness be merciful," Jak says with a laugh.

He releases the lock on the door and Eyan slips out. Everyone else gathers around the table. Jak sighs and rubs at his face. He guesses that tonight will be poker.

Charon props a boot against Jak's chair and eyes him. "My deal. You're going down, Prince."

Jak shows his teeth. "That's what you think, Warlord."

His eyes are aching and his pockets considerably lighter when the last man folds and leaves the Inn. Jak runs into Theia as he groans his way down the stairs. She gives him a measured look, one he cannot read, and silently offers him a set of clean bed sheets. Jakob watches as she climbs the stairs and disappears down the hallway.

She's a good one, Theia. A woman he almost thinks of as a mother. But Jakob has a mother—one he'll have to face very soon.

Until that time, he will try his best to protect this small piecemeal family he has come to cherish. He hopes that they will forgive him, in time, for his deception.

  
  


**4 / Ciraea**

Prince Sadi's second-in-command and secretary pack their bags and head farther south into the province. The meeting with Ciraea's Queen proved to be of little help—and infinitely more problematic. Phaedra remained evasive, talked of the profitable yields from the harvesting season—useless information, essentially, for the purpose of their discussion—and Surreal seemed unwilling to play their hand by announcing that she and Rainier are in the middle of an investigation. Or perhaps Surreal was just providing the woman more rope with which to hang herself.

Rainier is unsure.

But he can conclude that no answers will be easily uncovered near the Queen's residence. It makes sense, then, to continue their "tour" of Ciraea elsewhere. Rainier suspects that the Queen will have her loyal men following them—shadows which shall effectively silence potential sources of information and curtail honest opinions. It is a game he has been involved in before. He would like to prolong the hunt for this mysterious band of rogues until he has a clearer idea of where—and what—needs hunting.

He wants time to decide if a call for assistance will be necessary. That call will have dangerous results for Ciraea.

Rainier relaxes into the cushions of the Coach. Surreal's head lies against his shoulder, the witch making cute little noises that he would never dare think of as snores—not if he values his balls, which he does.

Theft seems to be the main crime committed by the rogues. With this in mind, and the layout of the province, Rainier doubts that the rogues are waylaying Coaches and wagons. Ciraea is a long narrow strip of land which has a major river acting as its eastern border. The fastest route through Ciraea—barring riding the Winds—is by riverboat. This means that Ciraea has two major ports, one at the northernmost and southernmost ends of the river to control the embargo of goods. There is also a decent-sized port, with the Queen's residence in close proximity, which acts as an intermediary check-point for river shipments.

Mist Falls.

A misnomer of a name. The land in Ciraea is relatively flat. Mist Falls refers to the heavy fog which can envelope the port and surrounding city with little warning. Rainier recalls the first time he was privy to this experience. Surreal had taken one glance out of the window of their shared parlor in the Queen's residence during an annual visit and told Rainier in no uncertain terms that if they planned to venture outside, he had to wear a leash so she wouldn't lose him. Of course, the fact that she was grinning soothed his sensitive temper and indicated that she was joking. (It would be unwise to assume Surreal never means what she says.) Later that day, he ended up losing track of _her_ in the fog; by the time they found each other again, he had reconsidered the option of a leash, if only to keep Surreal in his sights. They'd spent the better part of the evening arguing over that. Rainier still thinks he is in the right.

The memory causes him to chuckle but, luckily, it does not awaken the witch beside him. He sincerely believes that Surreal's morning personality is on par with Jaenelle's before the coffee arrives. Lucivar and Daemon don't believe him. Eventually, he'll find a way to prove it.

Their traveling Coach drops from the Winds just outside of a small wharf-side town. Surreal wakes up with an indelicate snort that has Rainier biting his lip. He wisely refrains from comment and accepts her annoyed glare with a mild look. They manage to pay the driver without trouble and disembark. Rainier is about to lead the way to the better part of town to search for a hotel—a decent one, he hopes—when Surreal starts walking in the other direction.

*Surreal!*

She stops to wait for him. His leg is beginning to ache from the long motionless journey. Her look is apologetic, but he waves off whatever she would say.

"Do you want to go to the river, Lady?"

Surreal shrugs. "I don't know." Then she adds, privately, *This direction seems… right to me. I can't explain it better than that.*

Rainier looks at her sharply. He trusts her instincts. She accepts his offered arm and they set out towards the wharf. Surreal, surprisingly, makes no comment about the mixed smell of fish, brewed ale, and sweat. He is about to suggest that they stop to ask for directions for lodgings when a woman calls out to them.

He turns, placing Surreal just behind him. He can feel amusement rolling off her in waves.

A witch with a long braid of black hair swinging behind her steps out of a shop. Her psychic scent hits him a moment later.

Black Widow.

Not a strong one, Jewel-wise. But a White-Jeweled Black Widow can be as dangerous as a dark-Jeweled Black Widow if a man gets pumped full of the venom from a snake tooth, or ingests a particular gruesome brew of poisons.

She does not welcome them with a smile, though she is the one who initiated contact. The woman merely says, "You'll want the Rose & Thorn Inn. Two streets down."

He can feel Surreal shift behind him, wonders if she is itching to call in her stiletto. She surprises him by asking, "What's your name?"

The woman wipes her hands on a rag from her pocket. "Moira." Then she turns her back to them, reminds them before re-entering the building, which Rainier deduces by the detailing must be her trade shop, "The Rose & Thorn Inn."

The door swings shuts and Rainier hears locks snick into place.

He stares at Surreal.

She says little except, "I guess we know where to go."

Yes, he supposes that they do.

  
  


**5 / Ebon Askavi**

Saetan calls in his half-moon glasses and settles them on his nose. He reads the report, one elegant eyebrow rising halfway through it.

Daemon sips from his glass of red wine. "Should I be worried?"

"Thieves are not uncommon in any Territory," Saetan remarks mildly. He removes and vanishes his glasses. "However, this appears to be more than simple thievery."

Daemon nods, waiting for him to continue. He watches his father steeple his fingers, a Black-Jeweled ring flashing for a split second on one hand. That face—an older version of his own—remains carefully blank.

When Saetan says nothing, Daemon asks, "How long has Phaedra ruled Ciraea?"

"Over two hundred years."

"Is there a history I should be aware of?" the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan questions the former Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

Saetan's eyes are hooded. "Such as?"

Daemon mirrors his father's look. "I can think of only one reason why a group of males would challenge a Queen's authority."

"This is not Terreille, Prince," the High Lord reminds him.

Daemon lets the air chill just enough to warn of his temper. Probably unnecessary, since the man opposite Daemon understands him better than most.

Saetan sighs. The tension breaks.

"I can recall only one… unusual event during Phaedra's reign." His father's voice is suddenly rough. "Mephis handled Dhemlan's affairs in Kaeleer for an extended number of years."

Daemon swallows to ease the tightness of his throat at the mention of his eldest brother, a brother he was not able to know for long before Mephis returned to the Darkness.

"Mephis remarked to me once that it would be unlikely for Queen Phaedra to stay in favor for more than fifty years. Along that vein, I was under the impression that her Court would dissolve."

"Why is she still ruling?"

"There are many and varied reasons, Daemon, but Ciraea's sympathy, perhaps, is the greatest of them all. Her only child—a son, if I'm not mistaken—was killed in an accident shortly after a third of her First Circle asked to be released from their contracts."

"Ciraea felt deeply for a mother's loss and did not have the heart to take away something else which mattered to her," Daemon finishes.

"Precisely, my dear Prince. She was able to promote enough members of the Second Circle to remain in power."

"Was it an accident?" In Terreille, Phaedra's son's death would have had too convenient a timing for anyone to seriously believe it was other than murder. But, as his father said, Kaeleer is not Terreille. Not the Terreille Daemon grew up in, that is.

"Almost a century later, Phaedra accused her Master of the Guard in the death of her son; something along the lines of a lover's jealousy. Phaedra's son had been sired by her first Consort. The affair was rather… unpleasant; Mephis attended the man's trial in my stead. The evidence was disturbing, not to mention extremely incriminating. The Queens of Dhemlan found the Master of the Guard guilty." Saetan closes his eyes briefly. When the High Lord opens his eyes again, there is an uneasiness in them that bothers Daemon. "Phaedra went against the appropriate punishment and had him publicly executed. She claimed a mother's right to the debt owed and was forgiven. I doubt the people of Ciraea—or Dhemlan, for that matter—have seen her in the same light since."

Daemon takes a moment to process Saetan's story and all the nuances therein.

His father wants to know his plans. "Well?"

"I may need to travel to Ciraea."

"I assume that Surreal and Rainier are already there on your behalf."

"Yes. They have not reported back yet."

Saetan is watching him. "You'll keep me apprised of the situation."

It's not a request. Daemon smiles. "Yes, Father."

The High Lord of Hell's shoulders relax. "I suppose I ought to wish you good luck, but I rather suspect it is Phaedra who will need that luck." Daemon snorts and uses Craft to send his glass sliding onto the side table. "But I will ask you to be careful, Daemon."

"I am always careful," he replies silkily.

Saetan agrees, "Yes, you are, Prince. Let this time be no exception."

  
  


**6 / Ciraea**

The rogues are stationed in groups of three, one set of which are keeping watch for the guards. Jakob, Eyan, and Charon have been waiting for nightfall in a tavern nearby, rolling dice and drinking ale to blend in with the crowd. Traye sent them word two nights ago of exactly when the ship is slotted to be docked in the port of Halesford. One of the men, an older Warlord who used to be in the merchant business, has loaned them the use of two covered wagons filled with straw. In a short span of time, two teams will work diligently to unload as many cargo bays as possible. Then the wagons will go their separate ways from Halesford—one north, one south. It's planned well, honed from the other three raids completed in the past.

Charon is antsy, as always, this far into the game. Jak suppresses a sigh and an urge to fix the Warlord's leg to his chair to stop the incessant bouncing. He settles for shooting the man a look instead. Charon glares back.

Eyan sighs at them both. A man walks along the dock, by the table that the three males are occupying in the shadows of a noisy tavern. The man stops, bends down as if to pick up a copper discarded on the ground. It's their signal.

Jakob tosses his companions a salute of sorts, stuffs his hands into his pockets and ambles east to the wharf. Halfway there, he slips into an alley. A set of spells are prepared: one for distraction, a look-over-there spell, and another to put the dock workers to sleep. It's the best he can do to prevent bloodshed. 

In the past, his spells were carelessly done—and that almost cost them the first mission. Jak is lucky that the worker who'd awoken as the last load was being hoisted off the ship didn't have his wits about him well enough to raise the alarm. Eyan had been directing their men on the dock and caught the fellow quickly, silencing him with a knock on the head. Eyan, who was a properly trained male that knew how to defend and protect when necessary; but also a man who does not take pleasure in harming others. He is a Prince, not a Warlord Prince like Jakob. Jak knows, with certainty, that his own response would have been instantaneous and deadly for the sailor.

So he went to his friend Moira, an accomplished Black Widow and a witch who befriended him as an adolescent—one who saw into him, the pain and anger he hid, and told him "You are owed a debt, child. When the time is right, it will be paid in full." She taught him how to make the spells stronger and more subtle; how to subdue the enemy with a suggestion rather than a fist; and how to economically siphon the power from his Jewels to keep the spells engaged for the length of time required.

Once the spells are in place, Jakob walks along a pier, dodging the men that are exiting the ship. It has recently docked and most of the workers will be released from duty to enjoy the late hours of the night, to spend their pay on strong drinks and the pleasures of the bed.

A hand snags his sleeve. Jakob pivots and greets Traye like a long lost brother. No one else pays them any mind as they slap backs and tease each other. It's all part of the show. Jakob leans against a large netted stack of crates.

*How many left?*

Traye pulls out a flask from his short vest and takes a long swallow before passing it on to Jakob. *Twenty or so. Can you cover that many?*

*Yeah.*

The question is legitimate, given his Opal Jewel. But Jakob doesn't plan on using his Birthright for this task. No one else needs to know that.

When the number of people along the docks dwindles down to the guards and a pair or two, Jakob follows Traye onto the ship and hands him a piece of black ribbon. Traye looks bemused.

*Tie it around your wrist.*

*You're joking!*

*Not unless you want to nap with the rest of the crew, Warlord.*

Traye ties it onto his left wrist with the funniest expression Jak has seen in a long time. He would laugh but that might call unwanted attention to them. Jakob walks several feet away and activates the spells.

*What's that?* Traye's thought is laced with wonder as a dark glitter seems to float like a fine mist onto the boards of the ship.

*That—* He rubs his palms against his trousers to shake off their tingling. *—is our protection.*

He walks back onto the dock and releases the next set of spells along the perimeter. Guards will suddenly be too tired to keep their eyes open, and any who do not carry a particular type of ribbon—it is actually carefully woven, spelled spider silk given to him by Moira—will feel uncomfortable approaching the dock for no explainable reason.

Jakob does a quick check of his surroundings, opens his barriers just enough to get a feel for the area. Then he sends out a sharp call along a spear thread aimed at Eyan. Within minutes, word has spread and the rogues glide like shadows to the ship. Each man comes with intent to see this night's work through. Each man, Jakob hopes as Traye leads them to the cargo below the decks, comes with his own honor, his own hope for the people of Ciraea.

If not... Prince Jakob knows only too well that the simplest misplaced move can bring a house of cards toppling down.

 

 

In the early light of a dawning day, a shrouded man walks around the outside of one of two covered wagons in the intersection of a crossroads. When his check is done, he slaps the wooden frame twice with one hand. This exercise is repeated for the second. Then both load-bearing wagons creak into motion and head in separate directions. A group of men gather into the center of the crossroads and observe each other. They share a brief prayer and a simultaneous sigh of relief. They share a crime and a hope.

At the cock's crow, they too disband and seek their homes, travel to their own towns, families and friends. One man is left behind. As his last Brother disappears from sight—to the Winds—he pulls back his hood, closes his eyes and savors the fresh air.

Then he too departs. Not back to his life, per se, for his first life—his beginning—is a collection of sorrows that end in a handful of twisted shadows and painful lies. No, he returns to _here-now_ , the end of idle waiting, and a future of his own making.

Elsewhere, in a quiet port, guards awaken groggily to the sound of shouts. It takes a moment or two and none-too-gentle slaps to their faces to rouse them to the troubles in which Halesford—and one ship in particular—as suffered during the night. At the news of "T'ship s'been looted!" the guards face one another with shocked, pale faces and wide eyes.

There is no doubt that, upon confirmation of an empty cargo bay, the mysterious rogues have struck again.

 

 

Jak is still half-asleep when Theia pounds on his door. The room in which he lives is small, mostly just a bedroom considering that he stays in the Rose & Thorn Inn and has access to Theia's private set of bathrooms and the kitchen.

"Jakob!"

Her voice is irritated so he switches from Warlord-Prince-alert to man rudely awakened for _no good reason_. He moans into his pillow, rolls off the bed and opens the door. "Theia, Mother Night! What is it?"

She gives him a look that could flay skin from bones. "Put on some clothes, Jak, we've got women on this hall."

He grins.

When she growls, he sheepishly calls in an old robe and slips it on.

"Boyo, I need you up and alert this morning."

Morning? Hell's fire and may the Darkness be merciful! "I just got home, Theia," he fairly weeps against the door.

She's not buying his pathetic act, never has in all the years that he's lived at the Inn. "We have important guests staying with us, Prince," she says softly.

He blinks, straightens. No guest qualifies as important in Theia's book unless… "Queen's men?"

She shakes her head but does not explain further. Instead, as Theia turns to leave, she warns him. *I'm sorry about waking you, Jak, but you need to be downstairs like it's any other work day. Understand?*

He does understand. She is trying to protect him, in this small way, by preventing others from noting any suspicious changes in the Inn's routine—in _his_ routine.

Jakob takes a moment to splash cold water on his face and rake a hand through his hair. Theia is worried. She hates what he is doing, because if he is caught he will be severely punished—crippled, perhaps—or even killed. As a Warlord Prince on a battlefield, no matter how intangible that battlefield, Jakob accepts those possibilities. Is not afraid of them. But for the sake of his friends, for Theia, he will be very cautious.

 

 

Rainier knocks on the adjoining door of their rooms. Surreal dumps her wet towels into a basket and calls him in. She stops in the middle of adjusting the wide belt around her waist at the look on his face. Her Gray jewel is glowing in her hand before she thinks twice.

"What's the matter?"

He closes the door carefully and glances at her Jewel. "That won't be necessary, Lady."

Reading a message in his eyes, she vanishes it and calls in her Birthright Green to wear around her neck. Then Surreal walks over to him, places a hand on his chest and says, "Tell me."

"I went for a morning walk along the wharf. The rogues struck again, at a port called Halesford not far from here."

She doesn't need to ask why he went out walking. His leg—the one Jaenelle managed to heal, mostly—is prone to ache with damp weather, and Rainier walks for the gentle exercise, to ease the sensation. Usually if she is awake early enough, she'll go with him.

"Then they may be nearby," she concludes softly. "What did they take?"

"I'm unsure. I was listening to two men talking about it. When I asked, as a curious bystander, they went silent pretty damn fast."

"That doesn't bode well for our investigation."

"No, it doesn't."

Surreal calls in a jacket. Rainier holds it open for her. Then they walk out into the hallway and head downstairs. Rainier leads her to a table and a pot of coffee appears along with hot fresh rolls and a pat of butter. Surreal eyes the dining room of the Inn—which is more likely a tavern in the evening. No one is behind the bar and a young bright-eyed girl is folding napkins and humming.

*It's very quiet.*

Rainier makes a noise of agreement as he slips his coffee. Surreal is about to say something a bit too bitchy when he goes very still. Watching his eyes glaze, she drops her hand into her lap and calls in her stiletto.

A man pushes through a swinging door—no doubt leading to the kitchen—calling, "Hey, Ali, Theia wants—" and breaks off abruptly.

Warlord Prince. An Opal-Jewel rests at the open collar of his shirt.

Rainier stands up with his attention focused on the other male, on the potential threat. It's instinctive, Surreal knows, but that doesn't prevent her heart from lodging itself in her throat. 

"Rainier," she calls softly.

He doesn't respond, simply stares ahead, eyes glazed. The other male's eyes are now equally glazed and the stranger takes one step forward.

Rainier growls. Surreal is out of her seat with a restraining arm on him.

Shit shit shit.

She can block him with her Birthright Jewel, shield him too, but any use of power might push Rainier over the edge. That won't do—she doesn't want to have to explain to Sadi why they were kicked out of Ciraea before they even started asking questions.

A quick glance at the young girl shows her to be pale and wide-eyed. Useless. Hell's fire, aren't these Kaeleer witches supposed to know how to handle males?

Then an older woman—the Mistress of the Inn who led them to their rooms yesterday—appears behind the other Warlord Prince. Her sharp bark of "Prince Jakob!" seems to have more effect. The man, Jakob, takes a deep breath, turns on his heel and walks back into the kitchen.

Well, at least that one was able to step back from the killing edge. "Rainier!" Surreal puts bite into her voice. He pins those still-glazed eyes on her. She reaches over and picks up the coffee pot, vanishing its contents as she does so. "Can you get us more coffee?"

His eyes drop to the pot. She watches as he fights to leash his instincts. Rainier takes the pot from her and nods.

"Oh and more rolls too! I am starving." She blinks innocently.

Whether he believes her innocent act—definitely not, she suspects—Rainier's mouth quirks. "Yes, Lady."

Surreal is idly tapping her fork on the table when he comes back. She stares as he sets down a basket of hot rolls, a heaping plate of sausage and eggs, two jars of jam, and one pot of coffee.

"Rolls, Rainier. Not the entire kitchen!"

"You need to eat," he says mildly.

Damn. There's no point in arguing with him; Rainier has that stubborn look in his eyes—eyes which, thankfully, are no longer glazed with temper. She growls to herself.

It makes no sense. The female has to keep the male from going berserk and in return she has to put up with his peculiar brand of insufferable fussing. No sense whatsoever. She'd give Rainier a piece of her mind too, but those eggs look delicious. Surreal manages a half-hearted snarl when he hands her a filled plate and digs in to breakfast.

After several minutes or so of silent feasting, she swallows the last of the food, sits back and narrows her eyes at her companion.

Rainier raises an eyebrow.

She takes a sip of her coffee. "I'd like to walk down to the wharf, if you don't mind going back there." He agrees. "Good. Now just wait here a moment, won't you, sugar?"

Surreal doesn't give him the chance to protest. By the time she is at the bar, the Mistress—what was her name again?—is already there to greet her.

"Morning, Lady. I hope the breakfast was to your liking."

"Filling, thanks. Now—"

"Theia."

"Theia. Between you and me, sugar, males are a handful."

There is amusement in the other woman's gold eyes. "I'm a mother. Trust me, I understand."

"Was that your son, then?"

The woman hesitates.

 _Interesting,_ thinks Surreal.

"No, but he has been in employed at the Rose  & Thorn for many years."

In other words, she considers him to be family.

Surreal's smile has sharp edges. "My companion may seem to lack sense, but I can assure you that he does not. His temper is mild for a Warlord Prince. So that has me wondering, sugar. Why would he take a sudden dislike to one of your males?" Her shift in posture would appear ominous to anyone paying close attention.

The Mistress proves to be astute. "Don't worry about Jakob, Lady" is her quick reassurance. "We don't have many Warlord Princes passing through the Inn, and even then Jak's usually the strongest. He's territorial about our Inn."

Surreal decides, for now, to accept this answer that is not an answer. She has no justification for going after the male, besides Rainier's instincts. Just as Surreal is about to walk back to Rainier, she catches a lingering scent of rage. In a brief pause, she opens her barriers just enough to taste it.

The scent is masculine, dark. The Opal? Yes, she senses that. But there's something more as well. Surreal returns to Rainier and slips her arm into his, giving him the physical connection to a female that he needs in order to ground himself.

This Prince Jakob of Rose & Thorn Inn wears the Opal as his Birthright. She'd bet a year's salary on that wager. It's probably one of the reasons that Rainier reacted so strongly. This Warlord Prince is not only a stranger, but someone who outranks him.

Well, Prince Jakob won't outrank her, and Surreal has no qualms about using her full strength to pound a message or two into a thick-headed male. With that comforting thought, she lets the issue go and turns her mind to their investigation.

Now where would be the best place to begin digging for information?

 

 

Jakob is not quite chopping through the cutting board with the vicious downward swings of his knife. He is certainly massacring the carrots.

Theia snaps out his name. "Jak!"

He snarls in response. He brings the knife down again, barely missing a finger. A piece of carrot splinters. Jakob takes a deep, ragged breath and leashes the rage that has been hither-to drowning the warm coziness of the Inn's kitchen. The knife is carefully placed to the side.

"I'm sorry, Theia. I—" He squeezes his eyes shut, his brows pinched together.

"I should have warned you, Prince. For that, I also apologize."

When he looks at the Mistress of Rose & Thorn Inn, he sees the woman who gave him a place to live and what comfort she could, in her own way. Not quite the same as with her flesh-and-blood son Whit, but certainly no less. For that, he will always be grateful to her. Loyal.

"They're not working for Phaedra."

"No."

Of course not. The second he'd been able to clear his head and shove down the Warlord Prince howling for release, he'd seen past the Opal-Jeweled rival in his mind's eye. In a brief glimpse he had instinctively categorized the witch. Strong, deadly. The delicately pointed ears marked her as Dea al Mon. Her coloring was unique for a Dea al Mon witch.

He can think of only one Aristo witch who fits her description and that makes his gut churn.

Lady Surreal SaDiablo.

It makes no difference, the rumors of the witch's past. No, what matters is that she represents a force with which he does not want to contend. If Surreal is in Ciraea, then it won't be for pleasure.

And that scares the shit out of him.

Has the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan caught wind of the rogue business?

Jakob thumps a fist onto the table. If Prince Sadi is curious about Ciraea, then he damn well should be here on his own. Queen Phaedra has gotten away with too much for too long because Sadi—and his father before him—have paid no mind to the people of this province.

Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. That's a title of a deserving man, a man who understands the responsibilities that it represents. It is NOT a title to bestow because Sadi happens to be the most powerful male in Kaeleer.

In a small way, Prince Jakob hopes that Sadi does pull his head out of his ass long enough to take a second look at Ciraea. Barring the possible unpleasant outcome of meeting Daemon Sadi, Jakob would love to have the opportunity to tell the man exactly where he can stick his title if he's not going to live by it.

Theia makes a disapproving noise at his short bark of laughter, though his humor has everything to do with the sudden complication of their situation and less to do with hysteria.

"What else needs doing, Lady?"

She eyes him. "Can you handle that knife without ruining my tables?"

He snorts and picks the knife back up. "I'll try."

"Then make yourself useful and slice the radishes for this evening's stew."

He slices radishes, peels potatoes, lights the ovens, and by the time a morning's work is done, Jakob is calm enough to consider what his next move should be.

 

 

The next grim-faced worker pretends that he does not hear their questions. Surreal curses at the back of the male's head and has to be warned by Rainier not to pull a weapon unless she intends to use it—and explain that use to her employer afterwards.

The pair are about to return to their rooms, only marginally more informed and amply irritated when an aged, lazy voice calls out from a sheltered huddle along a string of open-doored shops.

"Aye, lass, you'd be right to be asking questions."

Surreal glances at Rainier and raises her eyebrows. He looks as befuddled as she does.

The old man appears to be a permanent fixture of the docks. The shirt, vest and trousers are patched haphazardly and his deeply lined face speaks of years of hard labor.

Surreal allows Rainier to approach the male. "Sir, can you tell us what you know?"

"Name's Herb, pup. Old Herb, that's what the youngin's call me." The man speaks around a long-stemmed pipe. "Sir was my father," Herb puffs.

"Lord Herb," Rainier replies gravely. "I am Prince Rainier and my companion is Lady Surreal. We were traveling across Dhemlan when we first heard of Ciraea's plight."

"Ba!" the Warlord spits in a rumbling voice. "Plight? Mother Night, Hell's fire and may the Darkness be Merciful. Plight! The rogues are trying to save us, pup, not destroy us." Rainier gets a pipe jabbed in his direction, and Surreal stifles a laugh at the look on Rainier's face as he eyes his ash-covered boots.

"Why are you in favor of the rogues?" She sounds curious.

Herb leans back on his crate, looking thoughtful. "Well now, I wouldn't say I'm in favor of stealing, Lady. It's a bad thing, to take another man's hard-earned profit. 'Course, if the Queen weren't doing exactly that herself, then I'd have personally tracked down those rogues and handed 'em over for the Queen's justice."

Surreal cannot imagine that this old man would abandon his perch, let alone hunt down a band of rogues by himself.

Rainier asks, "Is there proof that Phaedra is… abusing a Queen's rights?"

That earns him a snort. "No, the Queen's as forthright about her business as a Black Widow is about poisoning a man's drink."

That sounds like an interesting tale. Too bad they don't have time to listen.

"What I'm saying is," Herb continues, "that you only gotta keep your eyes open to see how the people have fared under Phaedra. Why, you think I'd be out here in the damp instead of warming my old bones by a fire if I had a bit of untaxed marks?"

Yes. Surreal bites her tongue.

Herb explains, "See, people tell me things because they think I'm too old to remember. But my mind's still as sharp as the first day I set sail." He taps his forehead for emphasis. "I heard that the rogues were returning the goods to our people. My cousin's cousin knows a family that was in a bad way—couldn't feed their babes or store enough wood for the winter. Heard a stranger dropped off an entire crate of un-dyed cloth on their doorstep, ready for the market." Herb seems satisfied with his story, as he nods approvingly.

When the old Warlord is done refilling his pipe and seems ready to start talking again, Surreal gives Rainier a mental nudge. Rainier makes their excuses and gives their thanks. Herb looks almost disappointed to be losing his audience, but he does tell them to visit again, that he likes young company. She feels the old man's eyes on their backs until they turn the corner of the thoroughfare.

Surreal and Rainier head back to the Rose & Thorn Inn, the day passing to afternoon. She thinks quietly until the Inn comes into view, then remarks, "We do know one thing, sugar."

"What's that?"

"Whether or not the people of Ciraea or Ciraea's Queen approve, the rogues are real. I doubt that they intend to stop."

"That's why I'm worried," Rainier admits.

Her, too. Worried, not because she fears coming across a band of rogues—certainly not, that might be entertaining in a violent sort of way—but for the simple reason that if Sadi is called into the hunt, he will be merciless until the rogues are dead, the Queen, or both.

Later, as she sits down with Rainier in her room, she mulls over their latest report to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Rainier gives her a wane smile and Surreal sighs. The truth will have to do. And Daemon isn't going to like it.

  
  


**7 / SaDiablo Hall**

Even a Red-Jeweled butler has enough sense to stay out of the range of fire. Of course, given that Daemon Sadi is a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince and Black Widow with the High Lord of Hell as his father and Witch for a wife, his range of fire stretches pretty damn far. It is likely that there is nowhere a man will be safe from his reach. Beale knows this.

The butler does not approach him, not when the walls of his study are coated in ice.

*Prince?*

*Tell Jazen to pack enough for several weeks.* His voice is too soft, a warning hidden beneath words.

*Yes, Prince.*

Daemon does a slow prowl across his study, not yet ready to face others until the urge to splatter bodies across the walls can be leashed.

He enjoys being Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, needs the challenge of it. And if there are males foolish enough to implement their own brand of justice without seeking him first, without acknowledging his right and responsibility to handle the conflicts in Dhemlan… So be it.

Daemon flicks one fingernail against another, his hidden snake tooth sliding out.

The quicker this situation is resolved, the sooner he can come back to peace and quiet. _Well_ , Sadi smiles ruefully, _as much peace and quiet as this family can tolerate._

His temper subsiding—though still ready to flare from one heartbeat to the next—the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan straightens the cuffs of his shirt and strides from the room. Tomorrow morning he will depart for the estate nearest to Ciraea and meet with Surreal and Rainier.

Tonight, he will enjoy resting in the arms of his beloved wife—soothe himself before what he is sure to be many trying days ahead.

May the Darkness have mercy on Ciraea.


	5. Chapter Two

  
_Kaeleer_

**1 / Ciraea**  


When the Inn in Havenstry fills with business during the evenings, Rainier finds an empty table in a corner of the main dining room—then turned tavern—and listens to the flow of gossip. Sometimes Surreal joins him. Tonight he is alone.

He sips at a half-filled mug of ale, closes his eyes and focuses his attention on picking out sentences or thoughts.

"—heard that they're plannin' on going after Phaedra's personal—"

"My new neighbor, I've always been suspicious… he's never home!"

"There's a band of 'em right here in town, mark my words—"

_Thunk._

It takes all of Rainier's self-control not to lash out. Prince Jakob is scowling down at him. "Yes?" There is a hint of warning in his voice.

"Thought you might be needing a refill," the other male bites out. "It must be boring, sitting down here night after night with nothing but us simpletons for company. Your lady get pissed and toss you out?"

He feels his temper rising. This fool is ignorant all right—and damned lucky that he isn't talking to a much high-ranking male than Rainier. A much, much higher-ranking one. Like Sadi.

"Watch your words, boyo," he says softly. "You may feel that you can be insolent with me, but there won't be a damn thing anyone can do if you offend the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan."

The other man swallows. "He's comin' to Ciraea, then?"

Rainier nods.

Prince Jakob curses quietly, and Rainier lifts an eyebrow. "Is there a particular reason that bothers you, Prince?" he asks, voice mild.

"No" is the terse reply.

Rainier makes a noncommittal noise and says, "Thanks for the ale." He watches the Warlord Prince stalk away and spends the rest of the evening thinking on Jakob's response. If there are rogue males nearby—and people who support them through more than just talk—then they'll know soon enough that a new opponent is entering the game.

A deadly one.

  
  


**2 / minor SaDiablo estate**

Two days later finds Lady Surreal and Prince Rainier pulling up to a decent-sized estate in a private SaDiablo Coach. They thank their driver, and a butler nods to them on their way inside.

"The Prince will be with you shortly. There are refreshments in the parlor to your left."

"Have you ever stayed here, Surreal?" Rainier wants to know as they vanish their coats and gloves.

"No. I like Amdarh well enough, but I haven't been around other parts of Dhemlan often—except on business, of course." She smirks.

Rainier settles onto an arm of a chair. "I have counted up to six other estates in Dhemlan alone."

"So many?" Surreal looks interested at this bit of news.

He warms to the subject. "Well, considering the wealth of your family—"

She rolls her eyes, but he ignores that.

"—and the long-established… business in Dhemlan, it's no wonder that there are a number of estates employed and kept for the SaDiablos. Of course, going by the account ledgers alone—"

"There are seven family estates," a deep, cultured voice interrupts from the doorway. 

Rainier jumps up from his perch.

"Father tells me," Prince Sadi adds with obvious amusement, "that Mephis made use of the estates for our family 'business,' I believe you called it."

He tries not to blush. Sadi's mouth twists at the corner in a half-smirk.

Surreal sighs. "Daemon, play nice."

Sadi raises one elegant eyebrow at his cousin and second-in-command. "I am," he replies mildly.

Mother Night.

"If you can't let us indulge in a little family gossip now and then, I'd suggest that you go soak your head in a bucket of water." Surreal's eyes light up, and Daemon smoothly glides to a side-table—and away from her. "Or better yet, I'd be more than happy to assist you."

Rainier watches as Daemon mutters something under his breath and pours himself a glass of red wine. He'd get involved in this conversation except that he's not stupid and has no wish to focus Surreal's attention on himself—particularly when she's dreaming of large buckets of water. Well, maybe water. Probably more like piss. Rainier takes a page from Daemon's book, pours a glass of wine also, and once Sadi is seated, takes a position behind and to the left of him.

When Daemon eyes him, Rainier remarks to his employer on a spear thread, *Safer this way. She'll target you first.*

Sadi sighs into his glass.

Surreal narrows her eyes at them both as she uses Craft to move a chair across from Sadi and re-settles there.

Daemon begins, "Who wants to go first?"

When Surreal says nothing, it is Rainier's turn to sigh. He walks around the chair so that Daemon can actually see him talking. "Basically, Ciraea needs intervention before things get out of control—and people start a revolution."

"Against who?" the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan asks softly.

"Queen Phaedra," Surreal jumps in. "The bitch seems to be on everyone's shit list these days."

"The people remove Phaedra, and this is my problem how?" Sadi looks only mildly curious.

Rainier knows that Daemon understands, but the words must be said. "The Blood has an established hierarchy for a reason. If the rogues are allowed to incite protest and eventual anarchy, then that goes against Blood law and the order in which the system works. It… provides incentive for those who would abuse the system to undermine how we function as a society."

Sadi nods. "Do you have a guess of the identities of the rogues?"

Surreal shrugs. "No. I'd say that they are ordinary men who do a little pirating on the side."

Rainier coughs into his hand to hide his amusement. "Lady, technically we are all ordinary men with, er, alternate egos." Sadi looks equally amused.

She snorts. Then sobers and looks at Daemon. "Do you want me to go hunting?" she asks too softly.

"That won't be necessary," Sadi replies. "Not yet. But I do have an idea in mind that will require your help." His smile is brutally gentle.

Rainier suppresses a shudder. "How can we serve, Prince?"

The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince's gold eyes gain that trademark glazed, sleepy look. "Do you like games, Rainier?"

 _Not when I'm playing against the Sadist_ , he doesn't say. There's no need. Without a doubt Sadi knows his thoughts.

Surreal interrupts with "Rainier's more honest than the both of us put together. I like him that way."

"Surreal!" Rainier is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. The witch ignores him in lieu of watching Sadi.

Sadi says, "Fine. We'll keep our Rainier pristine."

He sputters. "Now what just a minute—"

Surreal waves a languid hand in his direction. "Oh hush. You'll still have some fun things to do, I'm sure."

Rainier looks between Surreal and Sadi, mouth open and feeling slightly upset—though he's not sure who he wants to be upset with, or can survive being upset with. So he settles for crossing his arms in a manner that he hopes is less pouty than it feels. After all, he is a grown man.

Daemon chuckles and drains his glass. "All right. Here's what you can do for me…"

Rainier listens, becoming more interested than he should be. By the look on Surreal's face, she is just as interested but a lot more thrilled. He wonders if he won't have the more difficult task after all. Lady Surreal will need both eyes on her at all times. Glancing at his employer, Rainier realizes that that is, perhaps, exactly what Sadi had in mind all along.

  
  


**3 / Ciraea**

"Ma, please tell me—!"

Jakob pokes his head into the kitchen and pulls up short. "Hey, I thought I heard shouting…"

Theia marches past him and Jakob flattens himself against the door to avoid a collision with the angry witch.

"Jakob!" His head pivots back from watching Theia disappear around the corner of the bar. The voice is familiar.

"Whit. When did you get in?"

A man of average height and without any particularly astounding physical appeal rubs a hand against his cropped black hair and gives Jakob a sheepish smile. Whit may not be what women think of as handsome but his sweet personality is endearing to most females. In particular, Ali claims this and Jakob is forced to agree under pain of sparking Lady Alia's temper.

"Sorry, Jak. I-well, I—"

Jakob walks all the way into the kitchen and pats Whit half-heartedly on the shoulder. "It's okay, Whit. Here to see Ali?"

Whit shakes his head. "Queen's business."

Jakob forces his body to remain relaxed. "Oh?"

"I've been assigned to a guard detail with Prince Nyx." They both grimace. The Master of the Guard is most certainly not a beloved—or nice—man under which to work. "We're, ah, chasing after those rogues. I'm sure you heard—"

"Yeah," he says shortly. "I heard." As a quick afterthought, he adds, "Who hasn't?"

Whit nods. "I just, I was afraid for Ma. When we come through town, well, you know how riled she gets—"

Jakob nods. "Don't you worry about Theia. I'll look after her."

"I know you will, Jak. But I can't help feeling as if…" The young man trails off. After a few seconds, Whit asks plaintively, "Ma isn't… hiding anything, is she, Jak? She hasn't been herself the last few times I've been home, won't even discuss the subject."

Jakob looks away, not flinching. On the inside, he feels pain akin to a knife in the gut. "Your mother is an honest woman, Whit."

"Yes, she is," Whit agrees quietly.

"And she's loyal to her family. Those are the things you can count on."

Whit sighs and nods with acceptance. "I do trust her. And I love her. I'm just afraid."

"We are all," he admits.

They don't look at each other for a minute. Then Jakob breaks the awkwardness by smiling ruefully. "You know that if you stop by and don't see Ali, she'll have your balls on a string before you two are even married."

"Thanks," Whit says dryly. "You always know how to comfort a Brother, Jakob."

He grins. "Just calling it like I see it, boyo. Ali's probably collecting the linens by now…"

Whit is already halfway to the side door that leads towards the guest rooms. Jakob calls on a spear thread, *Don't tumble on the new sheets. Theia will tan you both!*

Laughter drifts back. *Don't forget that Ma's a forgiving soul too, Prince.*

Jakob drops his head and smiles.

Theia is; she really is. Now all he has to do is find a way to keep the Queen's men from sniffing around the Inn and away from his family. He owes them that.

  
  


**4 / Ebon Askavi**

Saetan is fresh from a shower and settling into a book—whose contents he won't admit reading to anyone—when he senses the roll of dark-Jeweled power signaling that a temper is about to barrel through his sitting room. He sighs and calls in his half-moon glasses.

The door swings open to admit one stomping, ill-tempered Eyrien. His son, Lucivar Yaslana, in all of his Ebon-gray-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince glory. To say the man is pissed would be a mild description. Nevertheless, Saetan raises an eyebrow and comments slowly, "I could have sworn that I taught you manners, Prince."

Gold eyes lock onto his. Then the Eyrien snorts and tucks his membranous wings back against his body. "You probably tried."

"Yes," he says in a mournful voice. "I did try."

Lucivar's approach is only marginally calmer but still wary. "Daemon isn't at the Hall."

"No, I expect that he is not."

"And he isn't here." Lucivar looks suspicious. "Cat is, though."

"Mmhm," his father agrees. "I take it that she didn't enlighten you of Daemon's whereabouts."

Lucivar rubs his stomach. "Nooo. She was too mad that I'd barged in on her bath. Her aim's still good," he adds wryly.

Saetan snorts and decides that he'd better vanish the book before he spills yarbarah on it. Geoffrey wouldn't appreciate that, would probably demote him to a demeaning duty for a Keep's part-time librarian. He has discovered that the pale, black-eyed Guardian can be subtly spiteful if the need arises.

"Where is he?" Lucivar prompts, coming around to stand in front of Saetan.

"Handling a business matter."

His son narrows his eyes. "Dhemlan, then."

"Yes."

"Does he need help?"

Saetan smiles. "I doubt that, Prince."

"Battlefields aren't predictable," Lucivar argues. His Eyrien son is a warrior, born and bred, right down to his soul. Saetan would never change him.

"I know that, Lucivar, but you are not the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. Daemon is."

Lucivar moves, then, to pace. "I can get involved if the threat is against my brother."

"Yes," Saetan says softly. "Family is entitled to… become involved under those circumstances." Family would most certainly be. Those are words Saetan need not voice, as Lucivar and Saetan both know how they react to a threat against any member of their family. "So barring that, I suggest that you allow your brother some time before you go dropping down on his doorstep."

Lucivar stops, considering him. "What makes you think I plan on doing that?"

Saetan just smiles knowingly and calls in a different book. Lucivar is heading for the door when his father clears his throat. "There is an interesting short story in this collection."

Lucivar turns around and blinks. "Yeah?"

"I believe so." He uses Craft to slide a footstool within arms' reach of his chair. "Perhaps you'd like to hear it?"

When Lucivar straddles the footstool without a second's hesitation, Saetan adjusts his half-moon glasses and lowers his voice to an enticing story-telling timber.

The kind that Daemonar, his grandson, enjoys; the kind that his sons have enjoyed too, in years past. "Once there was a Warlord…"

  
  


**5 / Ciraea**

Eyan never spends time at the Rose & Thorn Inn, preferring to enjoy his evenings with his wife and children. Jakob is on instant alert. He slides into a seat next to the Prince at the bar. Lawl thumps down a mug of ale in front of Eyan and completely ignores Jakob.

"Bad news?" he asks the Prince, heart pounding.

Eyan focuses on drinking his ale for a minute. "I was going to ask you the same, Jak. Word's going around that Sadi is coming to Ciraea."

"Lady SaDiablo and her Warlord Prince are here."

"Shit," the man mutters. "Under your own damn roof. I'm sorry."

 _Not as much as I am_ , he thinks.

"Jakob," Eyan turns to him with concern and a flash of fear in his eyes. *If Sadi catches us—* He doesn't need to finish that thought. Probably can't without terrifying himself to pieces. *I promised Jyl I would stop the runs.*

*Hell's fire, Eyan, you weren't supposed to tell your wife!*

*And let her think that I have a mistress on the side, Prince? I'd rather confess to the rogue business. Safer that way.* There is a hint of amusement along the thread.

Jakob shoves a hand into his hair. *I bet she was still pretty pissed.*

*That's putting it mildly. But Jyl and I see eye-to-eye on a lot of things. She understands, on some level, why I agreed to join your rogues in the first place. Only now that the heat is coming down, she says I have to think of the children. And I do think of them, Jak, all the time. Rani and Jyrd have already mourned a father once.*

He nods, unable to speak. Eyan reaches out and clasps his shoulder.

"I want you to know," the Prince says quietly, "that I do believe in you, Jakob, and—whatever it is that you want to accomplish. Not just for Ciraea, but for yourself."

"Eyan…"

"Don't give me a spiel I won't believe, puppy. You and I both know that there had to be more to the start of things than you've let on."

Jakob looks away briefly. He returns his gaze to his friend. "Yes. But I—I can't tell you why, not yet."

"I trust you, Prince."

Slipping from his seat, he whispers back, "Maybe you shouldn't."

Eyan lingers at the bar, finishing his ale. After Lawl collects the tab, the Prince leaves the Inn, nodding one last time in Jakob's direction. He shudders, then, at the inexplicable loss he feels. Jakob wonders in that moment just how much danger the rogues will face in the coming weeks.

  
  


**6 / minor SaDiablo estate**

"You'll be heading back to Havenstry?" Daemon asks idly, swirling the red wine in his glass.

Surreal cuts into her steak and takes a bite. She chews so slowly that Rainier sighs and puts down his fork. "No. We need to search for the cargo's trail."

"The cargo was intended for unloading at Mist Falls."

Rainier nods to confirm Daemon's assumption. "Yes. The goods would then travel to the city surrounding the Queen's residence for sale."

"I have already spoken with Phaedra's Steward."

"Shit, Sadi." Surreal chokes on her wine. "Couldn't you have mentioned that before?"

The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince raises an eyebrow. "Did I not?" He sounds curious.

Surreal glares at him. 

Rainier coughs into his napkin. "Was Lord Reed…"

"Ecstatic to be talking to me?" Sadi laughs. "Hardly. Reed is… searching for the documents pertaining to the stolen shipments."

"Why don't you just tear the place apart until you find them?" Surreal suggests.

"My darling, I much prefer to study his actions rather than the actual documents." Daemon pauses. "Marcus has offered to procure the information that I need from the merchants in Little Terreille."

Surreal points her fork at Rainier. "See! I told you that Marcus is good. You've got to let him handle your investments."

Rainier fidgets in his seat. When he shoots a pleading look at the other male, Daemon remains silent and smiling. Surreal is right. He does look like a cat contemplating toying with the mouse—or much worse. "I'll think about it, Lady" is all that the concession that Rainier offers.

She huffs and goes back to her dinner. He suddenly thinks that this meal can't end fast enough. Having Lady SaDiablo against him is one thing—having a SaDiablo teaming up on the opposite side is terrifying beyond compare. He asks the footman who comes in to collect the used dishes, "I'd like a glass of… something strong, please."

Prince Sadi interrupts with "Bring the bottle."

Rainier drops his head into his hands.

 

 

Surreal and Rainier have left for Ciraea and Daemon is alone. He strips off his jacket and shirt and sighs into the bathroom mirror, hands braced on the counter.

He misses Jaenelle fiercely. He would take a quick ride on the Winds to the Keep, just to be close to her, but his wife had said, eyes midnight, that he must stay in Ciraea until the matter is resolved.

His Queen commands.

Then she had stroked his face, kissed him and told him that it wouldn't really be all that long anyway. The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan would help Ciraea. Her tangled web had alluded to that.

He exits the bathroom and sits on the edge of the bed. On Daemon's nightstand is an envelope addressed to him. His father's handwriting. The flap is sealed shut with black wax, the family crest glaringly obvious. Daemon breaks the seal with one long, black-tinted fingernail.

The message is short.

He reads it, groans, and reads it again before vanishing it.

Then the man lies down on his bed and throws an arm over his eyes. His grin betrays him. The candlelights are extinguished, and he rolls onto his stomach, vanishing the rest of his clothes. Time to grab what sleep he can. He'll be in dire need of it soon enough, if Saetan's message is any indication of the future.

It had read: _Your brother is upset. It would be a kindness to prepare the staff in advance._

  
  


**7 / Ciraea**

Theia is counting the morning till when the Queen's Guards come through the door. A neighboring store owner had sent word that the guardsmen were prowling. *Lawl,* she calls. *To the bar, please.*

She continues to count the money until one of them clears his throat and speaks. "Lady, we come on Queen's business. Is the owner available?"

"I am the owner," she says mildly, vanishing the money box and wiping her hands on her skirt. "How can I be of service to the Queen?" Her direct question startles them.

"We, uh, we are in search of the… thieves of Halesford." When she says nothing, he mutters something under his breath and continues. "Do you know about the Queen's stolen cargo?"

"I've heard about the incident," she replies.

"And what did you hear?" There are two other guards behind this one, both shifting uncomfortably in the inn's front hallway.

"That the cargo was stolen," she says flatly. The attached _fool_ is not voiced but understood.

A blush. "Er, yes." 

When the three start scrutinizing their surroundings, she sighs. "Why don't you come over to the bar? Normally we aren't open this early in the day, but I imagine that you three are tired for tromping up and down the streets."

"We shouldn't—"

"Now who's going to tell your superiors? I won't speak a word of it."

"Harl," says one guard plaintively. "C'mon, accept the kind lady's offer. My boots are pinching me!"

"You ordered the wrong size, you idiot!" the other hisses.

Theia snorts. Young ones—younger, perhaps, than her Whit. She imagines that her boy has more sense than the three of these young males combined. "One round on the house for your service to the Queen."

They follow her like lost but eager puppies. Lawl is behind his bar, wiping down glasses that he'd already polished after closing hour last night.

"Three brews, Lawl."

The Warlord nods silently and fills three mugs with dark ale. The guards slip into seats, one sighing with relief to be off of his feet. Theia leaves them to chat over their drinks.

She winds her way to Jakob's room and calls softly *Jakob?*

No answer. He's out, then. Getting into more trouble. She lingers by the door, taking a moment to collect herself.

Jakob doesn't understand the position that he has put her in. None of them can afford to have divided loyalties, but with Whit hunting for the rogues and Jakob being the one hunted… it tears her heart in two. She doesn't want to have to choose between them, is terrified that she might have to.

Theia loves them. Her boys.

How can she protect one without hurting the other?

Later, as she is directing the kitchen maid to properly knead the bread dough, Lawl opens the door and says gruffly, "They're nice 'n drunk. Time for 'em to go."

That is a cue if she ever heard one. Lawl is man who keeps to himself. He doesn't speak of family or where he is from, though she suspects it is out of some personal agenda rather than a need for privacy. No matter. He has served as her bartender for the past decade, and he is good at his job. If the Warlord doesn't want to be bothered, well, she won't bother him. So long as he does his work and makes no fuss. He fits well into the Rose & Thorn Inn, whether he'd believe her words or not.

She walks to the bar with a smile. "Enjoyed yourselves then?"

"Y-yesss, Ma'am," a guard slurs as he attempts to stand still and not tilt. Another one is holding onto the bar for dear life. "Gooood stuff, your ale."

"Mmhm," she agrees. "Do you have any other questions for me before you resume your patrol?"

They look confused, as if they can't remember asking questions at all. "Um, no. I d-don't think we got any more of… those. Do we?" He looks at his companions who shake their heads, one immediately grabbing his face to undoubtedly stop the sloshing of his brain.

They march like a line of uncoordinated ducklings. She leads them to the door and bids them farewell, watching as the men stumble out into the sunlight and curse. Theia allows herself one laugh. Then she goes back to work.

 

"Well, we've tracked the wagon and its merchandise this far."

"And we're still stumbling in the dark," Surreal clarifies to Rainier. "We won't learn a damn thing more if the Steward fails to find the records of the missing cargo." _How convenient a mishap_ , she thinks sarcastically. Lord Reed is trying to prevent handing them evidence against Phaedra.

"Or if the people of Ciraea refuse our help."

"Don't remind me. I think my ears are still ringing from that old woman's shouting. Who knew she'd be that sensitive over a few questions? You would think her granddaughter's dress came straight from the Queen's closet."

Rainier snickers. "It's the girl's fault for flaunting herself down the street. I always knew witches were vain but—"

Surreal smacks his arm. "Watch it, Prince. I might take offense on behalf of my gender."

The Warlord Prince grins at her unrepentantly. She is deciding on whether or not she can smack him again without having him tattle to Daemon, when Rainier points across the street. "Is that it?"

A sign hangs haphazardly across a front window, announcing Stella's Thread Shop. "I doubt there is another Stella's on this street, so I'd say it's the place we want." She puts a hand on his arm. "Why don't you wait here?"

"Surreal…"

"Sugar, you aren't Sadi. You can't go into a female clothing store and have the owner _not_ wonder why you are there."

He frowns. "Plenty of males help females shop."

 _Yeah, to carry their shopping bags and pay the bill_. She doesn't say that. It might hurt his ego.

"Let me do this my way." She switches tactics. "Please, Rainier?"

Rainier sighs heavily. "Fine. But I'll be watching."

"No, first you'll be going back to that bakery and purchase one of those pastries we saw in the window."

"I will?"

"Yes, you will."

He snorts and pivots to the way they came. Rainier hesitates before asking, "You'll be careful?"

"Don't you worry about me, sugar. I don't plan on giving Lucivar any excuse for another training session in Ebon Rih."

He shudders in understanding and walks away.

Surreal makes sure that her ears are hidden by her hair, crosses the street and strolls into the shop. After a cursory glance around, her eye picks out a familiar color. Along the back walls, there are stacks of gleaming gold material. She trots over to take a better look. Definitely the pattern that that girl had been wearing, decked out in a fashionable style that is popular among Aristo witches this season.

"Sale today, Lady. That's fine material there. The best in town." A witch is watching her.

"I can see that," she says idly and fingers the gold-spun cloth. The material is fine indeed—much too fine to be selling for half of its actual value. When the shopkeeper comes over, she asks bluntly, "Where did you get it?"

"Amdarh. I had to haggle something fierce with my supplier to get this shipment. You'd better buy some now before I run out. There's a limited quantity."

Surreal turns to face her, green-gold eyes glittering. "Let's cut the bullshit, shall we? Where—did—you—get—this?"

The smile drops off of the witch's face. "It's a gift from the Darkness," she snarls.

"It's stolen property," Surreal counters. The cloth is snatched from her hands.

"I don't steal, Lady, but I'm not stupid enough to look a gift-horse in the mouth either."

Aristo items had ended up in on black market streets all the time in Terreille. Back then, Surreal was just one of the many whores who made use of the pirated goods to accommodate all the appetites likely to come through a Red Moon house. No one asked questions and everyone turned a blind eye.

This isn't Terreille. And while she understands that even Kaeleer has its shady dealings, she cannot overlook any lead that might help her hunt for the rogues.

"Listen up, sugar. I don't really care about confiscating your wares." The woman continues to eye her with suspicion. "But I do want to know every last detail of how you got it. If not, I'll be more than happy to let you explain yourself to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan." At the woman's rapidly paling face, she leans forward and lowers her voice. "Who's it going to be? Me or Sadi?"

"A friend of mine had heard that some… goods would be passing through the market area at dawn. Anyone who wanted a piece of what was being given away was welcome to show up. I did. And I didn't talk to the people there—none of us spoke. We took our crates with gratitude."

The woman's voice changes to something closer to pleading. "You can't understand, Lady! This was my mother's mother's shop. She started it on nothing but the talent of her fingers and a few pieces of wool's skein. With the tithes these days, I can barely afford to keep the doors open. We're simple folk here who want a nice dress or two when it's time for the harvest festival. The Aristo shops don't cater to our kind—and we can't afford their prices."

Surreal does understand, better than this woman will ever know. She asks, "Did you get a look at the men?"

A head shake. "They're covered from head to toe. I wouldn't have wanted to see their faces anyway."

She doesn't want to be responsible for identifying the rogues because she profits from the piracy. Oh yes, that much is very clear. Ignorance can be bliss—especially when given a choice between duty and morality.

"What else?"

"I don't know."

She calls in her stiletto and slices through the cloth held between the woman's hands. The shopkeeper jumps back, a Yellow-Jeweled shield snapping into place. Surreal smiles grimly.

"I won't ask again."

"I don't know! I—The wagon, it was painted red. Just plain red. And the first wheel rattled. I don't know, don't you understand! Ask someone, anyone else—"

She snarls, "Hell's fire, get ahold of yourself!" The woman must expect her to jump over the stacks of cloth and slit her throat any minute; she won't stop babbling and weeping. Surreal vanishes her stiletto with a roll of her eyes.

"How did your 'friend' know the load was coming to town?"

The witch stares at her, mouth trembling.

"Let me guess," Surreal says snidely, "This friend is more like a lover and happens to know a rogue or two."

"No!" The denial is hysterical. "No, Arny isn't a rogue! And he don't know any rogues!"

The shop bell rings and Surreal smiles. "How about I let my friend ask your Arny?"

"Ask Arny what?" Rainier approaches them swiftly, his eyes hard and fixed on the shopkeeper. The witch looks between them, no doubt realizing what serious trouble has just stepped into her shop.

"Oh, if he knows any rogues!" Surreal says cheerfully to her companion.

Rainier's eyes are not quite glazed. Not yet. "I can handle that."

"NO!" The shopkeeper is more shrill and vehement. "H-He only said someone had sent word from Green Point because the rogues had been passing through there giving away stuff! That's how it works," she sobs, using the material like an over-sized handkerchief.

Surreal grimaces. No one will buy ruined silk. "Green Point," she tells Rainier who nods. She almost feels bad as they leave the shop and weeping woman. Then Rainier hands her a paper bag full of pastries and she nibbles on one as he arranges a ride to Green Point. Time to ruminate later; right now they are still on the hunt.

 

 

Surreal is bordering cranky and they are only two towns past Green Point. Rainier seriously contemplates finding a place to stay for the night and a dining hall in which to relax. "I'll take this one," he says wearily as he maneuvers their Coach next to a store.

She waves him on and he quickly scrambles out of the Coach and re-engages its locks.

Their search has allowed them to trace the wagon's journey almost south to Halesford where the cargo was originally stolen. But the pieces of the puzzle are still scarce. At the moment the only coherent picture forming is of the wagon itself. People don't know who was driving or who else was in the wagon; they know the direction it came from and its appearance.

"Red as my son's hair."

"Red with an odd black marking."

"Mighta been red. Mighta had a symbol. Don't rightly remember."

It is the symbol that Rainier is interested in. One fellow had volunteered—after a threat or two, "It looked like one of those old merchant symbols. Er, here." He'd drawn them a rough sketch of it, then said, "Try Lord Tarand off Hope Way. He's the local records-keeper."

Here they are, in a run-down business district at a building that looks like it could collapse at any minute. That the town has not cleared this area or attempted reconstruction tells him a great deal about the state of things. Halaway, where he lives with Surreal, is of a similar size and population. Sylvia, Halaway's Queen, would have a fit if any part of Halaway wasted away in the throes of dereliction like this place.

He knocks on the door. A voice says shakily, "Come."

"Excuse me, are you Lord Tarand?"

"Yes, Prince." An old Warlord eases out from behind a desk stacked with papers and books. "Can I be of assistance?"

"I need some information about local merchant guilds. Perhaps all the guilds in Ciraea."

"There are none now," the Warlord says as he grabs the edge of a stack to steady himself. Rainier offers an arm and lets the man direct him over to a shelf. He talks as he pulls at bindings. "Merchants' guilds were disbanded some centuries ago by Phaedra."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Why?"

"Who knows why Phaedra does what she does." A cloud of dust makes them both cough. "Here we are."

He carefully cradles the book handed to him. "What is it?"

"A planner given to me by an old friend. Dead now. It might be useful to you."

"I know that the merchant might have painted his symbol on his wagon."

"Likely, son. The mark of the Guild was required on all transportation of merchandise."

He opens the book and riffles a few pages. "Are the marks in here?"

The Warlord chuckles and slowly makes his way back to his desk. "Somewhere. Good luck."

Rainier calls in the piece of paper with the hastily drawn symbol and takes a seat in a dusty chair. He sighs and starts with page one.

 

 

Hell's fire. What's taking Rainier so long?

Surreal knows that she is officially past grumpy—and bored on top of that. Just when she levers herself up, the door of the Coach opens. Rainier grunts and drags himself inside.

"Well?"

He tosses a piece of paper into her lap. She picks it up, stares at it. He has written a word across the bottom: the name of a town.

Surreal looks at Rainier. "Havenstry. Why am I not surprised?" Neither is he, if his look is anything to go by. How fitting that they circle back to the starting point.

An hour and one hot meal later, when they arrive at the Rose & Thorn Inn, the Mistress takes one look at them—their disheveled clothes and tired expressions—and welcomes them inside. "You're back in town?" she asks politely.

"Looks like it, sugar," Surreal answers.

Rainier clears his throat. "Do you have rooms available, Lady?"

"Yes," she replies. "Right this way."

If Havenstry is hiding a band of rogues, then their hostess is obviously unwilling to give the secret away. The witch leads them with a grave and business-like air to the second floor and rooms for the night.

 

 

Rainier steps into the shop to which he'd been directed, brushing off raindrops from his sleeves.

"Is there something I can help you with, Prince?"

A Prince, middle-aged by Dhemlan standards, wipes his hands on his trousers and leans against the shop counter. Rainier gives the place a quick glance, noting doors and potential weapons. An Opal-shield thrums against his skin, just under his clothes. It's always best to be prepared. Yaslana had pounded that into his head on more than one occasion. His fingers automatically probe his side, searching for a bruise that has long since faded.

"I suppose so. I'm looking to borrow a wagon."

"This is my Great Uncle's business. I'm just minding things—the heavy rain always bothers his joints."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I am in a bit of a hurry. I've got some family antiques coming down river in another day and I need a way to transport them home."

"Most folks use a Coach for that." The Prince looks only mildly interested in his affairs. Rainier is aware of the suspicion which he is being weighed against.

He offers his humblest smile. "I can't afford a Coach. Trust me, I wish I had that kind of money."

That earns him a snort and a mutter of "Don't we all?"

"The furniture isn't going far, about three towns over." He takes a wild shot in the dark. "Everybody in Havenstry said this was the place to go for a decent rate."

The man sighs. "I'd have to speak with Uncle Tomas."

"Can I at least see what you've got? I'd hate to make an arrangement only to find that all my things won't fit under the canopy."

The Prince laughs. "C'mon then. They're around the back."

The man locks the front door. Rainier follows him through a side exit of the store and they dash to a shelter behind a gate. The man tells him, motioning him forward, "We've got three available right now." There are four wagons, two on each side of the large barn. One is missing an axle and a set of tools are scattered about it in the straw.

Rainier tosses a ball of witchlight into the air to proceed him as he walks around the wagons. "I can see that. What happened to the fourth?"

A hesitation. "It threw a wheel a few weeks back. Tomas insists on working on 'em himself, so when it'll get fixed is anyone's guess."

He nods, strolling along. The musty smell of old hay rises to meet him. He gives a quick inspection to two wagons, satisfied to see the markings on the side. Meanwhile he chatters on about the unorthodox size of an old hall clock he recently inherited from a rich distant aunt—things that would bore any man. The Prince watches him silently.

Rainier is working his way to the far-side of the third wagon. Before he can get close enough to take a look at the fourth, to see the extent of the damage, the Prince interrupts his perusal. "The store can't stay closed for long, Prince. Will these work?"

He places a hand on the third wagon and nods. "I believe so."

"All right. Come back to the front and I'll take down your information."

Shit. Well, maybe he can slip into the barn later tonight. "Fine."

As they walk out of the barn, Rainier tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. Yes, he definitely thinks that he has found a major clue. Now it is only a matter of collecting evidence.

 

 

The moon is full. Rainier's thoughts stray as he waits, sight-shielded in the shadows. Surreal isn't due for her moontime for another week and a half. Rainier wonders who will have to convince the snarly witch to give up the hunt—if it's not completed by then. He suspects Daemon will be much more effective at that—and if not, then one quick note to the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih shall suffice. He grins to himself at the thought of Surreal's pissed look when Lucivar stomps in and tosses her over his shoulder. He would like a ring-side seat if the Eyrien plans to pitch her into the nearest body of water. But not too close, because Surreal's aim with her stiletto is very accurate.

No one moves around the store or the structure at the back of the property. Rainier slips over to the barn and inside, dropping his sight shield. He approaches the half-leaning, dismantled wagon and uses the soft glow of witchlight to inspect the damage. Broken axle, definitely. It must have landed in a pothole, to skew so badly. He does a slow prowl. The witchlight causes something to glint. After a moment of locating the source, he crouches to fish out a piece of gold cloth from between two slats. It's torn, heavy material similar to the kind Surreal had pointed out in Stella's Thread Shop.

The barn door creaks. Rainier instantly goes still, senses alert and straining.

"You shouldn't have come back," a hard voice states roughly. "Trespassing on private property is an offense in this town."

Rainier vanishes the piece of cloth and straightens. When he slowly and carefully walks into view, it is with an equally hard expression. "I wanted another look at these wagons."

"I'm sure you did. But you are still trespassing… Prince."

He bares his teeth in an unsympathetic smile. "You didn't give me your name. I gave you mine this afternoon."

The Prince shifts. "It wasn't your real name. Everybody knows a Warlord Prince is staying at the Rose & Thorn." A stranger and a threat—those words are left unsaid but understood.

"Then you also know who employs me."

The man gives a short, sharp nod before saying, "Matters little, though. You're on my property and you're snooping. I don't appreciate that, even if he thinks it's his right."

Rainier will do the Prince the favor of not repeating those ill-fated words to Sadi.

"I don't doubt that you do, but the rogues are serious business." The man goes still and that's all the confirmation Rainier needs. He steps forward, acting on a gut instinct. "I've traced the thief in Halesford to these wagons," he says quietly.

The other man remains silent.

"Now, we can do this the hard way… and that is a way that I don't prefer. I have no desire to fight but I will."

"I won't fight you. I'd be stupid to."

He nods. "So we'll do this the easy way." Rainier calls in a token and hands it to the man. "I am sure that you know who to pass this along to." Then he slowly turns on his heel, walks out of the barn, sight-shielding again, and effectively disappears into the night.

 

Eyan turns the burnished gold token over in his hand. Each side is stamped with the initials S.D. He slips it into his jacket pocket, uneasy. He wonders if Jakob will understand what it means, almost certain that the Warlord Prince will.

The Prince decides to wait until morning to deliver the message.

 

"Jakob in?"

The bartender grunts and points to the kitchen. The Prince indicates that he does not feel comfortable intruding on a witch's territory. Lawl shrugs, wipes his hands on a towel and disappears behind a swinging door. Jakob comes out a moment later, covered in flour.

Eyan eyes him. "You drop a bag?"

"No," the young man groans. "Don't ask."

He does not mince words. "We've got to talk—privately."

Jakob nods and leads him out of an back exit of the Inn. They stop some distance down the alleyway. The sound of a bustling morning—people walking and talking, carriages riding past—filters to them from the street ahead.

Eyan takes a deep breath and starts at the beginning. When he finishes, the Warlord Prince is blank-faced and silent. He pulls out the token and hands it to Prince Jakob. He knows that fear is apparent on his face as he says, "This is the beginning, Jak. We've been found."

 

Jakob clenches his fist around the token, shaking. Any fool would think that he is afraid. He isn't.

Anger runs hot in his blood. Jakob feels the Warlord Prince in him coming to the forefront, acknowledging this… message for what it is. 

A warning—and a subtle challenge. 

He pushes away from the alley wall outside of the inn.

"Jakob!"

He ignores the frantic call, ignores everything but the need to face his opponent.

"Jakob, come back!"

Eyan catches his arm. His response is almost violent. The Prince backs away, watching him.

"Don't stop me," he warns with a growl. "Don't get in my way."

"You're not thinking. You can't—"

"I CAN!" he rages. It is difficult to push past the red clouding his vision in order to see Eyan clearly; he tries, though, to speak to his old friend with a measure of control. "The bastard wants to target somebody? Fine, then I'll walk onto the field."

"No, Jak, no. Sadi will kill you."

"Do you want him to come after you—or Jyl? Your kids?"

Eyan swallows hard, face pale. "No." The answer is rough.

"Then I'll do this. Whether or not I end up dead, someone has to step up to the line. Phaedra can't make us submit. And this _Prince_ sure has Hell won't scare us into submission either. I won't let him." He turns away. "Go home to your family, Eyan."

"May the Darkness have mercy on you, Jakob."

Eyan leaves.

The Darkness hasn't been kind to Jakob yet. He doubts that that the next few hours will make any difference.

  
  


**8 / minor SaDiablo estate**

*Prince.*

*Yes?*

*You have a visitor… from Ciraea.*

Not Surreal or Rainier then. And the butler would have announced a member of Phaedra's Court—or the Queen herself—quite differently.

*Take a message. I am unavailable.*

There is a hesitation. *The Warlord Prince is quite insistent that he speak with you, Sir. He says that you've been expecting him.* _Refuses to leave_ is implied in the butler's agitated tone.

Daemon pauses, his pen poised over a letter. He straightens and vanishes the items off of his desk. *Send this Prince in then,* he croons. Sadi settles into his chair and steeples his fingers, gold eyes fixed on the door of his temporary study.

The young man leads with his temper, not bothering to knock. A puppy lacking manners. Daemon waits to see if the Warlord Prince will cross the line and initiate battle rather than a discussion. When the other male stops mere inches from the edge of his desk, jaw working, Daemon says nothing.

Gold eyes, black hair, tan skin. Typical coloring of the long-lived races—a native of Dhemlan, most likely. The fool cannot be more than a few centuries old, judging by his audacity to ignore caution.

"Daemon Sadi," the man bites out.

That sneer pricks his temper. Balls-and-sass is one thing but… "Prince," he answers, voice silky.

"Jakob." A subtle pause. "Of Havenstry."

"Very well. You seem to be under the impression that I wish to speak with you, Prince. Why is that?"

The man gives no reply. Daemon's nostrils flare, the only sign of tension, when an object is tossed onto his desk. It rolls in a half-circle before falling flat. The SaDiablo token he'd given Rainier.

"You challenge, I answer," snarls the Warlord Prince named Jakob.

A chilling rage builds in his veins. He barely manages to hold onto his control and not lash out. "How foolish of you then. Do you know what I am?" he asks too softly.

The young man's face remains hard. "I know." He adds just as softly, "And I also know that only a coward stays blind to the truth."

The air is bitingly cold on both sides of the desk. Daemon's temper strains at its leash. He is tempted to give this infant a taste of his true rage—knows that he cannot. Not yet.

Instead the silence stretches, currents of vicious male anger choking the room. Daemon slowly uncoils his hands, placing them flat against his blackwood desk, nails biting into its surface. It is a poor substitute for flesh.

That this Prince Jakob does not feel fear either speaks highly of his stupidity or a stupid carelessness that no warrior can afford. Is this man a warrior? He is a rogue—of that much Sadi is certain. A dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince, young and unleashed. Dangerous.

Finally, the young male takes a step back and the tension breaks. He informs the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, "I won't waste another second of your valuable time. You will help Ciraea, or you won't. Until then," he snarls, "stay out of my territory!"

Daemon would be amused if he weren't fighting the need to reduce this insolent brat to ashes. The puppy stakes a claim on _his_ land. Ludicrous.

Yes, this Prince must be very stupid or have balls of gigantic proportions. No matter. Sadi's are bigger and certainly more lethal.

The butler is standing by the open study door—as if on cue—to escort the uncouth guest away. Daemon lets Jakob go. The Warlord Prince has foolishly provided him with a face and name on which to prey. 

A rogue among rogues.

Some minutes later, as Daemon is standing and slipping on his jacket, the butler re-appears, the Warlord's psychic scent screaming _pissed_. Daemon wonders if this particular Warlord was selected and trained personally by Beale. He also idly wonders if the man tried to toss the Warlord Prince out on his ass, regrets that he won't ask. He tells the Purple Dusk Warlord instead, "Contact Rainier and Surreal. Tell them to arrive at the Queen's residence in two hours' time." By the look in the other man's eyes, he understands that this visit to Phaedra will be unannounced.

Then the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan strides from his study, eyes hard chips of gold.

  
  


**9 / Ciraea**

Jakob bursts through the Inn doors an hour past midnight. He reeks of strong drink; his clothes are askew, eyes wild. Theia grabs his arm as he passes by, but he snarls and twists away from her.

"Jakob?" Quiet, easy. Concerned.

The man shudders and jams a hand through his uncombed hair. His words are barely intelligible. "Got-gotta go."

Her mouth stretches in a smile out of habit though Theia do not feel happy. "Bed's a good idea, Jak," she says softly. "You'll have a headache come morning."

"No," Jakob replies shortly. He moves like an old man—or a man who has endured a beating. She reaches for him again, automatically. His shoulder twitches away. Theia's hand drops back to her side.

"What's the matter?"

The Warlord Prince leans against an arm braced on the hallway wall. "I need to leave the Inn."

That painful lurch in her chest must be her heart. "What? Jakob, no—"

"So sorry, Theia. I'm so sorry."

"Jak, it's okay. Whatever it is…"

His soft confession is "I saw Sadi today."

She swallows hard, mute. No. "Jakob." It's a whisper.

"I know" is his only damning reply. And he moves away, then, even farther—head bowed and resolute. She watches him go.

At dawn, she is holding a full, cold cup of tea between her hands, staring at nothing. The Inn creaks and groans into awareness for the new day. Few would notice but there is a conspicuous absence about the Rose & Thorn now. She feels that difference—that missing piece—in her very bones.

Jakob has left.

"Morning, ma'am!" greets the kitchen girl on her way to warm the ovens for early morning baking. 

Theia closes her eyes.

He didn't say goodbye.

 

"If you have a problem that you cannot handle, Lady, you come to me. That is the standing agreement between the Queens and the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan."

Phaedra's skin is pale though she gives no sign of nerves. Her Steward is sweating profusely, her current Consort conspicuously absent and the Master of the Guard out on Queen's business.

Sadi is very still as he addresses Ciraea's Queen. Surreal and Rainier are in the back of the room like idle spectators. They know when to let Prince Sadi deal with matters—quietly guarding his back, just in case. Surreal's hand opens and closes, empty. The witch is clearly itching for a weapon.

"I know you are a busy man, Prince—and I still retain the right to defend my own people." Phaedra's voice is cool and unwavering. She never looks to her Steward or any of her guards.

Daemon lets the silence stretch until Lord Reed whimpers quietly from the corner. "You are the Queen of Ciraea, a province in my Territory. As of now, you will pull your men from the search for the rogues."

"My males will be at your disposal, of course, should you require… assistance."

He slides his hands from his trouser pockets, the Black Jewel ring on his hand catching the light. The jewel around Sadi's neck glows, too, from a fire within. "I doubt that I will," he croons. The other males in the room flinch. Then Sadi fixes his sleepy gaze on the Steward. "All fiscal accounts documenting the Queen's reign for the last five decades will be delivered to the Keep at Ebon Askavi. Everything, Lord Reed. I don't care if it's a dining receipt. You have three days."

"Yes, Prince," the man stammers.

Daemon pivots and glides to the entrance of the main audience hall. Surreal and Rainier shadow him. He remarks, almost casually, "—And Phaedra? I wouldn't suggest departing Ciraea anytime soon." His eyes remain cold and glazed. "It would be my pleasure to add you to the hunt."

Queen Phaedra sways but says nothing.

The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan exits.

 

 

Reed approaches his Queen on unsteady legs and slips a hand beneath her arm for support.

"To my room, Lord Reed."

"Yes, Phae," he answers quietly. They walk in brittle silence, the cold in the air from Sadi's rage still lingering. He guides her to a plush loveseat, newly purchased, in her parlor.

Phaedra turns her eyes—no longer cool, now terrified—to him. "What has changed?" she asks him.

 _Everything_ , he doesn't say. _You. Me. What happened to Honor, Phae?_ he mourns silently.

"My Queen, an intelligence report arrived last night. Sadi has unearthed one of the rogues."

"So the bastard is siding with the males?" Her voice is all bitterness.

"I do not presume to know what the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan plans."

Phaedra turns her head from him at that. For a moment, she is quiet. He notices that her hands are clutched tightly in her lap. His own fingers ache in sympathy.

"Sadi will remove me from the people, Warlord," she tells him in a hollow voice. "I might have had more years here." Then she turns dark, angry eyes on him. He fights the urge to step back. "The rogues have caused this—gotten exactly what they connived at. I don't care how you do it, but find out Sadi's nameless rogue. I want his head."

"Phaedra," he tries to explain, heart pounding, "we've been ordered out of it, we can't—"

"We WILL!" she hisses. "I will, if you won't. Have Prince Nyx return immediately."

"Phae, please, listen to me!"

"No other land will take me, after this. If I cannot be Queen," she states, "then my gift is forfeit."

He shakes his head, goes down on one knee though it hurts to do so. "Lady…"

Her face softens, and she touches his face with long, delicate fingers. "You have been loyal to me, Reed. You have served me well. For that I am grateful." She tells him gently, "It matters not how the end comes now, my dear—only that it does. Grant me this one last wish."

He drops his head under her hand, heart aching because he loves this woman. Always has, always will—whether or not she returns that love.

"Yes, my Queen," he concedes. "It shall be so."


	6. Chapter Three

_Kaeleer_

**1 / minor SaDiablo estate**

"Get lost, Prick?"

Lucivar steps past his brother. Daemon smoothly shifts out of reach of a spread wing. "Marian needed convincing to watch Daemonar by herself for the next few days."

"How much groveling did you do?"

Lucivar scratches his chin. "Enough." It's not the groveling he minds, because that usually leads to more enticing activities. It's the fact that the moment he had said Saetan would love to help out, Marian had easily calmed down and agreed. He shouldn't be jealous of his own father. He shouldn't.

Fine, so he was.

He had been greatly cheered after stopping by the Keep to explain to Saetan that the man had been volunteered for babysitting duty. His father had not said a word, not during or after the gleeful news, had merely hauled Lucivar to the nearest courtyard and tossed him out.

Lucivar grins in memory. Daemon looks interested.

"I offered Father's services to Marian."

Daemon makes a choked noise before regaining composure. "How… unfortunate for Father. It might be helpful if you return sooner than expected."

Lucivar narrows his eyes. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Bastard?"

"I don't need you here," Daemon replies mildly.

He rustles his wings and observes his brother from head to toe. "How many?"

Daemon raises one elegant eyebrow.

"Rogues," Lucivar clarifies.

"Not many, I imagine."

The Eyrien pivots and stalks farther into the building. The butler has conspicuously disappeared. Daemon catches up to him, matching him stride for stride. "I'm not leaving," the Eyrien says bluntly.

"Lucivar…"

He acknowledges the warning chill in the air with all the arrogance of his race. "I won't interfere in your business, Bastard." The Ebon-Gray Warlord Prince bares his teeth in a grin.

For a short instance, Daemon watches him with glazed, sleepy gold eyes. Then the brittle gold warms. "Fine. You can look after Surreal."

He nods. Her moontime is close. It's dangerous, fussing over a witch with an aptitude for knifing a man. Lucivar likes challenges.

"Dinner or brandy?" asks his brother as they walk.

"Dinner. Brandy later. Surreal and Rainier here?"

"No. They are in Ciraea."

He grunts.

Then Daemon adds, "I have… an appointment in Ciraea tomorrow. Is there a message you wish to pass along?"

Lucivar barks out a laugh. "Why bother? I plan to deliver it in person."

"Are you sure?"

"Would I be here otherwise?"

They take each other's measure, assessing, weighing a bond centuries old. Lucivar reaches out and squeezes his brother's upper arm. Then he steps back, rolling his shoulders. A lazy, arrogant smile is firmly fixed on his face.

Daemon slips his hands into trouser pockets, waiting.

"Since we're not leaving until tomorrow, we've got time for practice."

His brother groans.

Lucivar throws an arm around the other male's shoulders. "C'mon, Bastard. I'll go easy on you." And he will, for the first round.

  
  


**2 / Ciraea**

"The help quit?" Surreal settles at the bar and raises an eyebrow at the bartender, then focuses on the Mistress—Theia. She's dealt with this woman enough that she ought to begin to think of her as Theia.

"No, Lady," the witch replies steadily. "Family trouble. He's left for a while."

"Ah." She waits. When no other explanation is forthcoming, Surreal asks for a cup of tea. Lady Theia disappears into the kitchen.

How odd. But she supposes, all things considered, having one less Warlord Prince around—especially one that seems to set Rainier on edge—is best for everyone. Won't Rainier be happy to hear the news? Surreal will have to remember to tell him.

The barmaid, who Surreal has never really talked with unless asking for a meal or a drink, comes out of the kitchen. She places a cup of steaming tea next to Surreal's left hand. The young witch is wan in appearance.

"Are you all right, sugar?" Surreal asks softly. Just because Surreal is stuck with a family of fussing, irritating males doesn't mean that all witches in Kaeleer suffer the same fate. Even if it is the girl's moontime, she is probably required to work whether or not it feels as if her insides are being slowly scooped out with a spoon.

Surreal winces at a tinge in her lower belly. Damn, not much time until her own moontime.

"No, Lady. I—I just don't feel well. Please excuse me."

She nods and the girl walks over to Lawl, says something to him in a low tone before taking off her apron and setting it neatly folded onto the counter. Then the woman exits.

Surreal focuses on drinking her tea.

Sadi hadn't said any more to her and Rainier than that the planted token had worked—but not as expected. The rogue had come to Sadi rather than Sadi tracking the rogue via the locator spell. So he has met with the rogue—and that also means that Sadi didn't kill him.

She is uneasy. Why would Daemon not rip the male apart, find out all of the information he needs to hunt the others? Something must have been said that gave the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan pause; words that made Daemon decide to let the fool live a little while longer.

Again, why?

And how is she going to convince Daemon to tell her the details, so that she could hunt this male in order to discover the rest of their plans?

"Surreal."

Her muscles tense for a second before that pitch of voice registers. She turns on her stool, smiling at Rainier. "Hiya, sugar. Have a seat."

He returns the smile and approaches her, but there is a sharp look in his eyes. Surreal says nothing, and if Rainier is smart he won't either.

"Lady," the Warlord Prince says, "wouldn't you be more comfortable upstairs?"

She snarls to indicate that he borders a line that should not be crossed. *My moontime hasn't started yet, Prince,* snaps the irritated witch.

*Surreal…*

She gives him her grumpiest look. *I can still wear my Jewels. I'll rest when it starts.*

He looks as if he wants to argue but is wise enough to accept her version of acquiescing to his demands. *Yes, Lady.* Rainier executes the proper bow to show that he is at her service.

She sniffs. "Now my tea's cold."

Rainier flicks a glance at her cup. "Why don't I order us a pot?"

"You do that, sugar."

Before Rainier walks over to the bartender to request the order, he half-turns towards her. "I came down to tell you… Sadi's on his way."

Surreal stares. "Here?"

A short nod.

"Shit."

"With Lucivar."

"SHIT."

Rainier snorts.

"Do they even know where—" She doesn't finish that sentence. The answer to her question is more than likely yes. Daemon generally knows the whereabouts of everyone and everything; Lucivar will simply roar until someone points him in a direction. Sometimes that can be irksome—especially when she is out on a dinner or theater date and one of her male cousins 'coincidentally' appears. There hasn't been a male yet who has had the balls not to run scared at the sight of Lucivar cleaning his war blade or Daemon idly looking at his fingernails.

Surreal sighs. "See if they have something strong to add to that tea, Rainier."

He grins and calls in a flask. "No need. I've already procured the necessary tonic, Lady."

She snatches the flask from him and sniffs at it. "Gravedigger? Rainier, do you want to get us fired?"

"Sadi didn't fire us after that time we—"

"You promised to _never_ mention that again," she hisses.

"Did I?"

At her growl, he scurries off—well, as fast as a Warlord Prince chooses to; they concede only the battles they believe that they have secretly won.

Surreal turns back to the bar, uncaps the flask and pours a generous amount of its contents into her tea cup.

Screw propriety. She needs a drink.

 

 

Rather than looking shocked or nervous at the approach of the two most powerful males in Kaeleer, the older witch—and obvious keeper of the Rose & Thorn Inn—snaps at the pair of newly arrived Warlord Princes, "They're in my dining room. Go get them." She tosses down a rag and points to a doorway on the right-side of the hall.

Daemon clears his throat. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. They're over there. Now kindly retrieve the lady and the Prince before my entire inn is burnt to the ground. One fire is enough!"

Lucivar blinks, shrugs, and marches in the indicated direction. Daemon lingers a moment before calling on a spear thread. *Lucivar?*

* _Mother Night._ *

*Lucivar, what—* Once he is down the hall, Daemon stops in the entrance to a large bar area. Stares. "Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful."

Rainier, who had been trying to steady himself against the Eyrien, spots Daemon and attempts to greet his employer. He is listing so much that he staggers into an upright barrel.

Lucivar chokes on a laugh. *You take Rainier.*

Daemon uses Craft to float Rainier into an upright position. The male smells strongly of burnt hair and something strange. Daemon's brain finally identifies it as furniture polish. *He stinks.*

*Do you want to handle Surreal?*

Daemon takes a quick glance across the room and raises an eyebrow when he spots his brother and his second-in-command. His decision is instantaneous and firm. *I'll pass.*

*Didn't think so— _shit!_ She bit me!*

*You are shielded.* He levers Rainier to his feet. The man groans, burbles something. Daemon certainly hopes that Rainier can wait to empty his stomach's contents.

*So's Surreal. We kept bumping shields.* Lucivar then growls something in Eyrien that Daemon doesn't bother to translate. *I'll meet you upstairs.*

The innkeeper, a nasty glare and swinging rolling pin in hand, moves out of the doorway to make room for Daemon and his burden. "Which room?" he asks.

She turns on her heel and leads the way up a set of stairs that makes Rainier turn green. Daemon hustles him to his bathroom just in time. After he finally has the man situated—that is, dropped into bed and mostly cleaned up—he exits Rainier's room to find Lucivar already waiting for him. The Eyrien is leaning against a wall, arms crossed.

"Is Surreal all right?"

Lucivar pushes off of the wall. "As well as can be. I tossed her in the shower. She's pissed."

Knowing his brother, Lucivar probably didn't bother to heat the water. Daemon bites off a laugh. "I can imagine."

"So, are we staying?"

"Do we have a choice?"

"Not unless you want to haul a hung-over Dea al Mon witch into a Coach."

"I'll acquire us a set of rooms for the night."

Lucivar's gold eyes are amused. "You do that."

Daemon slips his hands into his trouser pockets and narrows his eyes when his brother calls in a flask and uncaps it.

"Prick, if you touch one drop of that, I'll punch you."

Lucivar's smile is lazy and arrogant. "You could try."

Daemon shifts.

Lucivar watches him for a moment before saying, "I don't want that witch downstairs to flatten my head. Did you see the size of her rolling pin? I bet Marian would love one." The Eyrien thrusts the flask into Daemon's startled hands. "You might want to talk to your staff about chugging Gravediggers on the job, old son."

He closes his eyes. "And what good would that do?"

"Not a damn bit."

"Precisely."

They stare at each other. Then Lucivar smirks. "Morning's going to be a bitch."

He returns the smirk. "Yes it will."

And that will be revenge enough to satisfy him.

  
  


**3 / Ciraea**

"Boy, quit yer moonin'! Get back to work!"

Jakob grits his teeth, re-adjusts the tight fit of his worker's gloves and uses Craft to set the boards into place so that he can hammer them down. The general sounds of construction rise up into a den of noise. He does not smile, does not frown, merely works until sunset.

Upon leaving Havenstry, Jakob sent word to the other rogues to lay low until further notice. He's in hiding now, from Sadi. That does not mean, however, that Jakob is running scared. No, he wants to keep the Rose & Thorn Inn safe, stop Sadi from adding it to his hunting ground. Let the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan hunt him—that is inevitable after their previous encounter. But Theia does not deserve to have her life's work ruined. Jakob will do anything to prevent harm to his family. So the Rose & Thorn is best suited to become a memory until the ashes from Sadi's rage are all that is left.

Hours past the end of the work day, he lingers over a draught of ale. A group of fellow handymen and carpenters come careening into the bar which Jakob thought was secluded. One of the men, a Rose-Jeweled Warlord, spots Jakob in the far corner and hails him. He sighs but accepts the invitation. A loner can arouse suspicion.

They greet each other, spend a few minutes ordering drinks and settling down. Jakob notes how tight his shoulder muscles seem to be and purposefully slumps on his stool.

The Warlord is talking. "I ain't heard nothin' recently except…"

Jak interrupts carelessly. "Except what, old man?" The Warlord lets out a bark of laughter. Jak scoffs, "Rumors of the foreman's affair with his bottle of whiskey, or the new set of shops the Aristos want? We've _all_ heard those."

There are several laughs and agreeable grumbles.

"Naw, naw. I got somethin' better than that!"

His companions lean in.

"My boy came home to visit—that's his mother's doin'. Anyway, he's got steady work, is head of the East Dock in Mist Falls." The Warlord puffs with obvious pride. "And ye know what he said to me? Pa, he said, my men are scared shitless—jumpin' at every shadow." The man grins largely at the group. "Seems them rogues are finally settin' their sights on good ol' Mist Falls."

"What?" Jak chokes on his ale. The Warlord slaps Jak's back, which does little to aid him.

"Swallow, pup! Mother Night. What's the matter with ye?"

"The rogues?" he manages.

"Yeah. Rumor is that they're going to strike t'Bitch's palace."

"You must have heard wrong," he growls.

That earns him a strange look.

Jak adds, "Why would they announce their intentions? Isn't that something they haven't done before?"

The Warlord shrugs. "Don't know. But the Queen's bound to have 'em on her doorstep someday soon. What else have those men been buildin' up to?"

"A message, not a battle."

Another male inputs, "Well, the Queen's guards will be set for battle if they catch sight of the rogues. I heard Nyx is making 'em practice twice as hard before the sun is even up."

"The rogues are not going to Mist Falls!"

"How do _you_ know?"

Jak clenches his jaw.

At his silence a few snort and salute him with their mugs. The Warlord says, "Right. Ye know as much as the rest of us, boyo."

Jakob doesn't correct the man. Instead, he listens as the conversation switches to more common talk and waits another hour before tossing down change and leaving behind the dwindling group of gossiping men.

No word has come to him; no meetings have been held, not since Halesford. That can only mean one of two things: someone is lying and attempting to draw out the rogues or, worse, the rumors are true. In that case, he needs to find out who is issuing orders for another attack. There is only one foolish enough, burning with zealous anger, to want to storm the Queen's gates.

Charon.

It is time to pay the bastard a visit.

He goes back to his small rented room and packs his single traveling bag. Lord Charon has been living at a family estate in southern Ciraea since he joined the rogue business—but if there is talk of activity in Mist Falls, then chances are Charon has moved back to his family's main seat.

Charon is an Aristo who scorns his upbringing. Jakob can almost relate. Almost.

Yes, Charon may be surprised to see Prince Jakob on his doorstep, but this is certainly an overdue meeting; Jakob has tried to put off this particular pissing contest since the day Charon arrived at the Rose & Thorn for a drink and with an inquiry that nearly had Jakob kill him right then.

Jakob pays a last night's rent to the tavern owner and catches the Winds to the north.

Mist Falls.

Home.

An uneasiness settles in the pit of his stomach. He ignores it and forges ahead.

 

 

"Mother Night… Could you lower your voice, _please?_ "

"Same to you, sugar."

Rainier and Surreal stare at each other. Daemon uses Craft to thunk down two mugs of brew in front of them. They simultaneously groan; then Surreal snarls at him.

"Please explain, my darlings, why you thought drinking Gravediggers sounded like a good idea."

"If we do—" Surreal manages, "—you'd probably kill us." Rainier whimpers into his mug.

Daemon's eyebrow shoots up. "You have such faith in me, Surreal."

She grunts and settles for glaring at Sadi. He bites back the urge to laugh. It is reassuring that some things never change between friends.

"You'll be pleased to know that Lucivar won't require your presence on the practice field this morning."

Rainier opens an eye to fix on him. "This is an inn. There isn't a practice field here."

He keeps smiling. Rainier wisely says nothing else.

Surreal sighs at both of the males and says to Daemon, "Why'd you invite him along anyway? Isn't chasing rogues enough excitement?"

"Lucivar invites himself wherever he pleases." They all know that, of course. Anyone who has had the misfortune of tangling with Lucivar learns quickly that the Eyrien follows no rules but his own.

The door bangs open. Surreal and Rainier cringe.

Lucivar walks right up to the table the three are situated at, takes one slash of a glance at Daemon before focusing all his attention on the pair of hung-over idiots. Surreal stays focused on Daemon, and Rainier pillows his head in his arms.

"The bartender wants to know what you two poured down your throats last night."

"Shit. You didn't tell him about Gravediggers, did you?"

Lucivar grins. "Naw. I doubt his employer wants to deal with the consequences of selling it." The Eyrien shrugs. "She sent him running before I could answer, anyway."

"I'll deduct the damage fees from their salaries," Daemon remarks.

"I'd suggest you double the amount," his brother adds. "That's what Father did when Cat and I trashed Merry's."

Rainier's head pops up, causing him to wince. "You did?"

The Eyrien rustles his wings, looking smug.

Surreal also looks interested in this tale—not that the family hasn't shared plenty of hilarious, and heart-stopping, stories involving Jaenelle, her friends, and a particularly potent brew aptly named a Gravedigger. Daemon is curious, most certainly, though he would never admit it. It will be better to wait until he can stop by the Keep and ask his Father. Reminding Saetan of that particular incident is likely to be as amusing as the tale itself.

"So," Lucivar begins, "let's order food and then we'll talk."

Rainier turns an interesting shade of green and excuses himself. Surreal merely announces that she wants a double helping of fried potatoes—and they'd better be damn good.

 

 

"Tell Lord Charon that Jakob is here."

The servant makes no reply except for a quick bow and disappears down the hallway. Jakob is left standing in the front entrance to a large manor house. The walls are decorated with tapestry, every specially arranged vase gilded in gold. The home reeks of Aristo wealth and arrogance. It makes Jakob itchy.

He senses the temper before he sees the man and tightens the reins on his own temper. This is not the place to shed blood.

Charon appears, resplendent in a finely woven silk shirt, tan breeches, and soft leather boots. His sneer distracts from the ensemble. The Warlord takes Jakob's arm in a tight grip and hauls him into a side parlor. An aural shield snaps up around the room and the door is Green-locked.

"You fool!" the Warlord hisses.

Jakob lets the air chill around him. "What did you expect, Charon? That I wouldn't hear about the strike until it was over and my men were dead?"

Charon swallows some of his anger. "I won't be idle. I don't take orders from you, _Prince._ " The man shifts.

Jak does too, balancing his weight. Just in case. "You're the fool, Warlord, if you think an attack on the Queen's residence won't get you and everyone else killed. Because it will."

"Then we die with honor. Ciraea will know that we die for them!"

Something in Jakob snaps. "There is no glory in death!" Charon makes a noise of surprise, doesn't have a moment to duck before Jakob has him pinned against a wall. The Green Jewel around Charon's neck flares, and the Warlord Prince dares him, says, "Go on, Charon. Give me a reason." Jakob snarls, "Do it!"

The male in his grasp stays tense but does not strike. Jakob gives him one last shove into the wall before stepping back. It is obvious that the Warlord is trying to master his voice. Jak smells Charon's anger; that anger is also tainted with a hint of fear.

"The other men may take your orders, Jak, but I don't. I won't."

"Then you're out."

"Fine."

They lock stares. Charon is the first to look away.

Jakob tells him, "I never asked you to believe in me. I asked you to believe in Ciraea—what's best for Ciraea. Killing the Queen is not what is best."

"You don't know that."

He answers softly, "I do. I understand Phaedra very well, Warlord." 

He ignores Charon's "What the Hell are you talking about?"

"She is an ambitious woman, and she's cold, Charon. She'll do what it takes to get herself where she believes she belongs. If you give her a reason, she'll destroy you so thoroughly that no one will entertain the thought of going against her; she'll convince them to turn a blind eye. That's why we have to do this _my_ way. You kill a weed by pulling out its roots."

"Ciraea isn't that bitch's roots," snarls the other.

"No. Her support is her Court."

He watches as those words ripen, as Charon takes them in. The Warlord wants to know, "How do you plan to take away her Court?"

His smile is gentle and dangerous. "With the truth," he replies.

"What truth?" Charon steps forward.

Jakob moves around the man to the door and lazily snaps the Green lock.

"You can't—"

The Warlord Prince takes one last glance at his companion. The Opal Jewel necklace is gone; a Sapphire-Jeweled ring is glowing on his right hand. Charon's mouth opens, once, like a fish.

Prince Jakob's words are quiet. Deadly. "I can. Don't tell anyone about us or this. I have plans, Warlord, and if you screw with my plans, I will kill you."

"Jakob…"

"Goodbye, Charon. I hope, for your sake, that we don't meet again."

He leaves. The shout of "Jakob!" is just a distant sound in comparison to the blood singing in his veins.

  
  


**4 / Ciraea**

"Prince" greets the Steward.

Nyx gives Reed one quick slashing of a look and dismisses the male guard from the room. He understands, at least, that what needs to be said between them is private, Steward to Master of the Guard.

There have been enough years of acquaintance that Reed knows not to bother to ask Nyx to sit. The Warlord Prince prefers to receive and issue orders standing. Reed has often idly wondered if the man insists on intercourse in an upright position too, but that's something he'd never have the balls to ask Nyx—or Phaedra.

"We must discuss the Queen's will." When Nyx says nothing, he continues. "The Queen requires the identity of the rogue that has become known to Sadi."

Nyx replies gruffly, "I have men placed in the south for this purpose, Warlord."

Meaning that Nyx has either anticipated the Queen's wishes or Phaedra ordered him to search in person, rather than allowing the Steward to handle the matter. He knows which case is more likely—and it hurts.

"Do not harm the rogue once you find him, Nyx."

The Warlord Prince's silence speaks for itself.

Reed sighs. "He must be brought before the Queen and made an example for the other rogues. As a warning." He pauses. "And Phaedra has expressed a desire to talk with him before his execution."

"No." That response is automatic for a Warlord Prince, because of his possessive, protective nature.

"Yes," Reeds replies gently. "It is the Queen's will, Prince. We have given Phaedra our words—and our lives."

"I serve," states the Master of the Guard bluntly. "I serve the Queen as she wishes—and as I choose to obey. The only way Phaedra will speak with any treacherous bastard is if I am in the room."

"I doubt she'd want it any other way, Prince." No doubt, indeed. Phaedra knows the value of a loyal Warlord Prince… and also what happens when that loyalty is lost. He thinks of Fallon and shudders.

"Are we done?" Nyx asks.

"No. There is one other matter." And the reason he needed to speak with the Master of the Guard in private.

Reed walks away from his desk, running a hand across the spines of books on a high shelf. He selects a book and opens it, not looking at the words, but in need of something to hold while he speaks.

"Prince Fallon," he begins. His back tenses when the room starts to smell dangerous. Reed presses on. "The Former Master of the Guard was your teacher at one time, Nyx. When you… turned on him, to report suspicious intent against the Queen, I must know, Prince, what did he tell you?"

"You questioned me then" is the answer.

"Yes, I did. You were evasive on the details of what Fallon claimed."

"His talk was dishonorable. He received the punishment that was his due."

Reed replaces the book and confronts Nyx. "How did Phaedra explain his accusations to you?"

Nyx shifts, then, for the first time since entering the room. "The Queen does not have to explain herself to anyone, Warlord."

"She should to you, considering your intimate affection."

Nyx snarls, and Reed is certain that if he weren't the Steward, Nyx would have killed him by now. "Get to your point, Reed."

It is the use of his given name that prompts Reed to answer truthfully, without playing a game of words. "My point is that Fallon's claims were true."

Nyx is on him so fast that Reed doesn't have a moment to breathe. There is a blade against his throat and an enraged Warlord Prince pressing Reed into the bookshelf. Reed hears something fall and shatter on the ground. He knows better than to fight, to give the male a reason to shed his blood. So Reed goes as limp as he can beneath Nyx's arm.

The Warlord Prince is snarling "You lie!"

"No," he manages calmly, despite the wild beating of his heart. If Nyx does slit his throat, then it will be an appropriate way to die. Maybe if he returns to the Darkness, he will find his soul again.

"Liar!"

"Either kill me, Prince, or let me go. I'm too old to be held hostage like this."

Those glazed gold eyes bore into his. When the knife against his throat presses deeper, Reed is certain that he is going to die. Then Nyx steps back and re-sheathes the knife in his boot.

The sudden ability to breathe again makes him light-headed. Reed feebly holds himself upright against the bookcase. When a sufficient amount of time—and silence—has passed, Nyx demands an explanation.

Reed limps over to a chair and sinks down into it. His head falls into a lax hand. "Fallon told you that Phaedra had her only child killed." He can't be blunter than that. There is no need to deny it, to think that to say the words aloud are propaganda against the Queen. He can only see the Master of the Guards' boots from his position. Reed does not bother with correction.

"Fallon was jealous that the Queen wanted other lovers."

 _Like yourself?_ He does not voice those words.

"Fallon shared the Queen's bed only once, Nyx. And he came to me after that night and said he would never do so again. That was at the start of his career. I also know that Phaedra did not ask Fallon to attend her in that way again. She had taken an official Consort and was pregnant within the year."

Silence.

Reed remembers that Fallon had always believed that Phaedra's child could have been his, though she acknowledged the paternity as her Consort's—who had, surprisingly, been a generous-hearted man. The Consort understood Fallon's suspicions and allowed the Master of the Guard to become close to the boy—to act as a second father. That's why, when the Consort died, Fallon took Phaedra's son under his wing and became the child's personal guardian in everyone's eyes but Phaedra's.

The boy's death had ripped Fallon apart. The Master of the Guard could not, would not, accept that the child's death had been fate or just a tragic accident. Phaedra had miscalculated Fallon's reaction, though Reed had warned her.

He shivers, feeling cold—as if Fallon's ghost hangs over him.

"Fallon loved that boy like his own," Reed supplies gravely. "When the boy died, Fallon could not rest until he discovered why. And he did, unfortunately."

Reed looks up then, meets the dark, unreadable eyes of the Master of the Guard. "The boy was to return from his schooling for the holidays. Phaedra wanted his Coach to meet with an accident by the river. I arranged it."

Condemning words—ones that he has never spoken aloud until now.

Nyx only response is "Why?"

"The Queen needed time to regain the support of the people of Ciraea. We bought her that time." At a terrible price.

Nyx turns away from Reed, back stiff. "If you are lying to me, I will rip out your tongue. Then your heart."

"And if I am not?" he asks softly.

The man does not answer. The Master of the Guard unlocks the door and strides from the room. Reed is left, an almost empty husk, to wonder if telling Nyx had been the right decision after all.

 

 

"Hey, son, you look familiar."

"I am not your son," replies the Warlord Prince.

"Now don't get testy with an old man, boyo. I was just making talk. Still, your face… you from Mist Falls?"

"No" is the answer grated between teeth. The stranger pushes away from the counter of the shop, selects another bottle and sets it down next to his purchases with a heavy hand.

But the shop-owner won't stop staring at him. "Passing through then?"

He grunts. "On business. I live south of here."

"Ah." The shop-owner gives him a total for the supplies and is promptly paid. The bagged items are vanished.

Just before the stranger can fully exit the store, securing his coat more tightly about him, the old man calls out, "Now I know who you look like!"

A tense pause.

The man is still talking. "—look just like the Queen herself, why—"

"Shut. Up." The words are said so ominously that the man instantly obeys. The Warlord Prince growls, "If you ever say that again, I'll break your neck."

The shop door rattles on its hinges as it is slammed shut. Jakob, trying to suck in enough air, steps onto the busy street. He does not glance at his surroundings, only shoves his hands into his pockets, head down, and walks into the crowd. His figure becomes another unremarkable blur amongst many.

  
  


**5 / minor SaDiablo estate**

"Why does Marian put up with you?" Surreal SaDiablo growls as she is escorted into the family estate bordering Ciraea.

"I can't answer that question, witchling," Lucivar Yaslana replies.

The witch continues grumbling. Lucivar twitches his wings in amusement.

"You could have at least let me stay at the inn, you ass."

"Prick," he corrects mildly. "It's better if you stay here."

Surreal hadn't taken kindly to the announcement that she would be retiring to the estate for the duration of her moontime. But Daemon, Lucivar, and Rainier had set their heels down and wouldn't be budged on the decision. Eventually Lucivar had gotten tired of arguing with her so he had used Craft to float her down the Rose & Thorn Inn's steps and into a Coach, which he had then Ebon-gray-locked.

She had cursed and spat the whole time. Inn servants had lingered around corners, smart enough to stay a careful distance away from the danger zone but unwilling to pass up good entertainment.

Surreal hadn't been pleased either when Lucivar made her apologize to Rainier for smacking him when he had sided with her male cousins. Rainier, of course, took both the smacking and apology with more grace than Lucivar would have. Perhaps the Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince knows that Surreal will regret her actions later—when she isn't uncomfortable from the pain of her moontime and not being able to use Craft.

Lucivar settles Surreal upstairs in a suite of rooms and informs her that if she is a good little witchling, she can have a sweet treat with her dinner. Luckily, the skintight shield he wears prevents any real damage from the viciously thrown stiletto. 

The Eyrien descends the staircase, grins at the wide-eyed butler and calls in a jar of a particular moontime brew that Lucivar knows Surreal likes.

It's going to be a fun couple of days.

  
  


**6 / Ciraea**

"Nyx?"

"Lord Reed, your presence is requested by the Queen."

The Steward carefully sets down his pen and stands up. He follows the Master of the Guard to the Queen in silence.

Phaedra stands tall, a regal figure in her expensively cut gown. She addresses Reed. "Warlord, I have a task for you."

He bows, a hand fisted over his heart. "My life is yours to do with as you will, my Queen."

Her eyes hold cold approval. "The Queen's Coach is prepared for a short journey to the river."

"You wish for a trip, Lady? I can arrange for the household to move to another estate, if you desire different quarters."

She smiles then. "No, that shall not be necessary. You will ride in the Coach, dear."

It takes him a moment too long to understand what she is suggesting. "A ploy?" he asks.

"An opportunity, Reed, for those who are disloyal to make themselves known. There have been certain… rumors of attack by the rogues. Am I not correct, Prince?"

The Steward takes a quick glance at the Master of the Guard. Nyx is blank-faced and looking at no one. His answer is brief. "Yes, my Queen."

Reed looks into Phaedra's eyes and tells her, "Understood. I will serve to the best of my ability."

She tells him in return, "Have no fear for your life. Nyx has arranged a guard detail to keep you safe."

He murmurs his thanks.

Once dismissed and alone, Reed admits to himself that Phaedra and Nyx won't grieve if he ends up dead. Well, at least now he knows that above all else, Nyx chooses his Queen.

Sadly, Reed too has chosen his Queen over honor. And tomorrow he goes to his very probable death.

 

 

"Why's the Queen leaving so soon? She doesn't take her spring trip until next month."

"Who cares? All I know is that her jollying around is another season's tithes wasted. I hope she don't come back!"

"The Queen's coming! Mama, the Queen's coming to Mist Falls!"

"I heard that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan is going to dismiss her. Could she be running? I'd run too, if Sadi were after me."

Jakob hears these snatches of conversation; they set him on edge. The carefully worded reminder to stay quiet should have reached Eyan by now. He trusts that the man has sense enough not to disregard it.

People are chattering and pointing, large numbers of them teeming on the sidewalks. Jak leans against a streetlight. He observes. Mounted Queen's men march down the street. The Queen is traveling to the wharf of Mist Falls. A lavish, large white Coach can be seen in the distance. It is heavily guarded. Jakob thinks then, quite suddenly, of Whit; the young man must be among the ranks.

Jak swallows the lump in his throat. Theia had been so proud when her son was accepted into the Seventh Circle of Phaedra's Court.

He shifts uneasily. Something doesn't feel right. Why would the Queen make a public announcement of her intentions to travel?

His instincts scream _trap!_

So far he has not caught any tell-tale currents of rancor or harmful intention among the growing crowds. And may the Darkness be merciful, he has not seen any familiar faces in the crowd. If one of his men were captured, it would end badly for all involved.

Jak knows with certainty that if given the chance, he would kill a friend rather than let him be taken into interrogation.

Whatever plan the Queen is enacting, in hopes to catch them, none of the rogues will take the bait. Jakob pulls the floppy hat lower to obscure his face. The Coach is close to passing by. So close. Just when the horses' hooves are clattering on the stone, _clop-clop-clop_ , and the rattle of the Coach wheels are drowned by the talk of people, he scents trouble.

Before Jakob can identify a direction, a Craft-enhanced shout cries out " _For Ciraea!_ " There is a robed man in the middle of the street, arm raised.

A blast of Green-Jeweled power rams into the side of the Coach. People scream, horses spook and guards shout orders. The attacker takes off into the crowd.

Jakob fights through the throngs to follow. The attacker heads for the long, narrow alleys. Jakob veers onto a different path, intent on intervening.

He bursts around a corner, seeing the haze of a sight shield not strong enough to hide from the Sapphire, and catches a handful of the dark robe, yanking the man into a side alley.

He slams the man into the stoned wall and yanks back the hood. Stares.

A knife hits his Sapphire shield and slides away.

"Charon, _you son of a whoring bitch!_ "

The fighting male hesitates. Jakob reveals himself.

"Jakob?"

"Damn you! Of all the stupid—"

Charon shoves him backwards. "Shut up. I did what I had to."

"It's a trap—"

There is the sound of booted feet and clanging swords. They both hush.

*Charon, it was a trap. I doubt the Queen was even in that Coach. Now they'll hunt you until you're carrion strung up on a post.*

When Charon looks at him, Jak cannot shake the surprise at the hot anger he sees in the Warlord's face. *I am willing to die, Prince.*

*Charon, don't be a fool-*

But Charon ignores him and steps out of the alley. Jakob can feel the Green power building, can feel the call of battle that Charon sends out in psychic waves.

Jak grits his teeth, stuck between joining Charon and keeping to the shadows.

The guards enter the alley. Jakob wonders if Charon plans to obliterate everyone, himself included. Then he catches the dark feel of a wall of power woven in front of the guards. His stomach drops. What kind of spell—? Shit!

*Charon, no!*

Charon unleashes the Green. The power slams into the spelled web. There is loud snap and it bounces, creating a terrible backlash. That raging power, somehow fueled by the web, breaks through Charon's Green shield and keeps coming. Jakob tries to ride it out, instinctively letting the power flow through him rather than fighting against it.

It is possible that he blacks out for a moment.

Lord Charon staggers, face white. His defenses are gone. A command sounds, an order to…

*Charon!*

Jakob doesn't think, just plunges out of the alley and into the fight. But he is too late. There is a scream of pain and the Warlord crumples to the ground. Jakob hears a roar of defiance, of denial, only distantly recognizes that it is coming from him. He senses that the guards' protection spell has broken and throws a bolt of Sapphire power in their direction, catching them unawares and causing a brief retreat.

When Jak drops to the ground, to Charon, and turns the man over, he already knows that the Warlord is dead. There is a gaping hole is in Charon's chest and his wide eyes are sightless. The sounds of shouting, cursing, and the smell of raw power grows dim; the scent of blood sharpens.

The Warlord Prince in Jakob howls to be unleashed. He closes Charon's eyes and stands up. Those who have regained their footing see him and hesitate. He growls lowly.

There is uncertain shifting of bodies and slowly, so slowly, one of the guards raises his blade in challenge. Jakob widens his stance, feeling Sapphire power thrum through him, straining.

The guard is saying "Identify yourself, Prince. Do you stand against the Queen?"

"Yes," he answers coldly.

"Remove your Jewels and—"

" _No!_ "

A cry from someone Jak knows well. Whit.

Hell's fire. He can't kill Whit. Before anyone can move, Whit has placed himself between the guards and Jakob. "Stand down," orders the young man desperately. "I know this man! He's not—"

"Whit," Jakob calls quietly.

The young man, a brother to him, half-turns to the Warlord Prince. He is sweating, pale. "Please, I don't know why you're here but you can't mean it. Tell them."

"I'm sorry," he says. "Whit, I am a rogue." The horrified realization on Whit's face is like a knife in the gut.

"Step aside, Whit," says one of the Queen's guards. "We have to take him in."

Jakob takes a step back, nostrils flaring. "You won't," he says quietly. "If I have to kill you in order to walk away, then that's what I'll do. I won't warn you again."

Whit's hands are trembling as he steps closer to Jakob and reaches out to touch him. "Jakob, I-I serve the Queen. I can't let you go."

There is an ache in his chest, because of the pain in Whit's face. He doesn't blame the man for his misplaced loyalty; but Jak won't have the chance to tell him that either.

Just when Jakob is about to break from Whit's hold, another Warlord pushes to the front of the guards.

"Jakob?"

The whisper of his name from that voice, that familiar voice, freezes the Warlord Prince where he stands.

Whit looks relieved that Jakob is not fighting; he looks sick too, but that cannot be helped.

A man—a face—that Jakob has not seen in person for over a hundred years, except in his nightmares, is staring at him. Someone gasps. He can't tell if it was him or the Warlord.

They lock eyes. "Mother Night" is the horrified whisper.

It's then that Jakob's brain restarts. He takes advantage of Whit's loosened grip and wrenches against it before slamming his fist with a small burst of Opal into Whit's stomach. Whit sprawls with a cry. There isn't a moment to apologize.

Jak throws up a Sapphire shield to block the powered attacks of the other guards and bolts. Somewhere behind him is a distant cry of "Don't kill him!"

Jakob doesn't stop running. He uses the last of his waning power to wrap a sight shield around his body and slips from shadow to shadow, alley to alley—not sure where he is going and not caring.

He can't be caught.

He can't see that face again. It's too soon. He's been found too soon.

Finally, after what seems a long period of time, Jakob crashes from the streets into the dockyard of Mist Falls. The sound of pursuit has long since died away, but his heart still pounds like a drum.

The man collapses to his knees in a dark corner.

No.

 _Lord Reed_ , his mind whispers back.

No.

 _Now he knows, Jakob_ , that small voice says—that harsh voice which has been pushing him all these years towards revenge.

_And soon, so will your mother._

  
  


**7 / Ciraea**

"A body?" Sadi repeats too softly.

"Yes," Rainier answers. "It was tied to the back of the Queen's Coach and dragged through Mist Falls to the Queen's residence." He swallows hard and clenches his jaw in memory. "The guards wouldn't have done that for any plain criminal. It was a rogue." Rainier had left Mist Falls as quickly as possible thereafter, slipping away unnoticed in the commotion, general shock and horror permeating the air as the guards rode triumphantly down the street after the kill.

There is a long cold silence from Sadi.

Rainier waits, unable to leave the room until Daemon dismisses him, but also afraid that if he does leave, there will be no buffer between the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince's rage and the innocent people in this inn.

Phaedra has defied a specific, witnessed order from the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. She now has no hope of ruling even the smallest backwater town—of that, Rainier feels certain; however, if Daemon is in a truly bad mood, then the consequences for Phaedra will be much, much worse.

Finally, Sadi speaks. "I need to send a message to Yaslana. It must be delivered promptly."

"Yes, Prince." Rainier bows, relieved, and turns to exit the room.

"Rainier."

He pauses.

"Thank you for telling me."

Rainier tilts his head in acknowledgment. "I serve" is his gentle reply.

  
  


**8 / minor SaDiablo estate**

Lucivar steps through the open door to Surreal's sitting room, the witch eyeing him irritably from her position on the couch, when a spear thread stops him in his tracks. *Prince Yaslana, a message has arrived for you.*

*I'm coming.*

"Lucivar?"

"Just a minute. Here." He calls in another blanket and uses Craft to float over to Surreal. "Tuck yourself in." Then he turns around and goes back to the first floor.

The butler hands him the message. He breaks the seal and reads it. It is from Daemon.

_Queen's guards have killed a rogue. I sent Rainier your way. Keep Surreal there._

His wings rustle. A storm is coming.

Lucivar vanishes the note and turns to face the witch behind him—had known she was here.

"Do you need me?" Surreal asks softly.

Lucivar plants his fist against a wall. "Go back upstairs, Surreal."

She ignores him, descends the last three steps on the staircase. "Does Daemon need me?"

His face is hard. "It's still your moontime. So I'll give you a choice, little witch. Either you let me take care of things, or I'll escort you to the Keep and lock you in a room with Rainier."

Her face smoothes, becomes equally hard. "Do you like your balls, Yaslana?"

"Don't fight me, Surreal. Daemon wouldn't thank either of us if you end up hurt."

"I can defend myself," she snarls.

"I know that," he answers softly. "But right now, in a fight, you'll be a distraction and not a help."

She says nothing for a moment. Then, "Two days. Then I'll return to Ciraea."

His smile is lazy and arrogant. "Three days, and I won't even complain if you miss a scheduled nap."

Surreal sputters. "You call that a compromise?"

He pushes away from the door, wings spread. "Can you make it back up the stairs, or would you like me to carry you?"

Her muttered response is nothing pleasant. "Fine. When Rainier gets here, tell him I said it's okay to beat your brains in."

The Eyrien tilts his head at her, baring his teeth in a smile. He watches her disappear to the upper floor, waits a heartbeat before contacting his brother. *Has Rainier left?*

The thought comes back to him instantly. *Yes. Surreal?*

*She didn't knife me. But we're probably going to have to let her kill someone before this is over.*

*I'm sure there will be volunteers.* A pause. *Lucivar?*

Lucivar sends a hint of concern along the spear thread. *Bastard. Tell me what I can do.*

*I have a message I need to get to Jaenelle.*

*Done.*

*Thank you.*

*Daemon, take care of yourself.*

*I love you too, Prick.*

Lucivar rubs at the back of his neck and stops pacing the length of the hallway. He figures Rainier won't arrive for another two hours, so arranging a meal in the meantime will be welcome. Deciding on this course of action eases his restlessness.

Now to see about riling the witch upstairs. It might not improve Surreal's mood, but it will do wonders for his.

Not long after, when Surreal is to the point of throwing pillows—and luckily not her stiletto—at Lucivar who smacks them away with a snap of his wings, Rainier arrives. The man takes one look between the grumpy witch and Lucivar, and hauls Lucivar out of the room.

"She's supposed to be resting," Rainier says. His words border challenging.

"I'm tiring her out," the Eyrien replies. "If she's tired, she will be easier to coax later."

Rainier blinks. "Okay." Then he calls in a box. It has a Red seal on it, one that Lucivar could easily break, but he senses the other spells woven into the seal as well. Spells that could only be done by a Black Widow and undone by a Black Widow.

He takes the box with care. "For Cat?"

Rainier nods.

Lucivar vanishes it. "Then I had better get this to her."

They both turn their heads to the sitting room at the loud annoyed "Rainier?"

Lucivar's smile turns into a grin. "Have fun, Prince."

Rainier's expression indicates otherwise. Lucivar leaves him to the testy Surreal without a moment's guilt.

  
  


**9 / Ciraea**

"I am pleased with Nyx," Phaedra says as soon as Reed slips through her private sitting room door. She is facing a mirror, a jeweled hand rearranging her carefully coiled hair.

"Phaedra." His heart is pounding. How can she not hear it? How could she not see how troubled he was earlier, when he requested a private audience? He'd almost been ill when the dead rogue had been dumped on the foyer of the Queen's residence. Even now, an hour later, his stomach still churns.

"The body must be put on display in the courtyard. No," she pauses. "Not the courtyard. Have it strapped to the docks of Mist Falls. I want everyone to see the fate of traitors."

"Phaedra…"

"Do we know his identity yet?"

"No, Lady, but I must speak of another matter."

"Oh, what is it, Reed?" she snaps. The woman who faces him is displeased.

"Please sit down, Phae."

She stares at him for too long before retiring to the settee. Reed slowly walks to her, his Queen, and kneels.

"There was another rogue, one we didn't catch."

"It does you no good to speak to me of failure" is the Queen's icy response.

"It was Jakob."

Silence. Phaedra seems frozen in time, her face at first blank and then slowly drained of color.

"No." The denial has a faint, painful echo.

"I saw him."

"No!" She gasps then, like a dying woman. Her hands go to his face, clutch at him.

"Phae…"

Her hands tighten, nails sharp. He goes still, her terror battering at his psychic shields. The potency of it makes him sway.

She whispers, "Are you sure? It was… Jak?"

The Warlord closes his eyes. "Yes. I… He recognized me too, Phae. And he—looks so much like you and—"

"Stop. Please, that's enough." Phaedra releases him, her hand shaking as she touches her brow. "Oh Reed, how? After all this time… It's not possible! He's dead," she states flatly.

"We never recovered the body."

Her eyes squeeze shut. "What can we do?" It sounds so lost.

Reed swallows.

His Queen breathes deeply. Then her body finally seems to obey her command and returns to a calmness that surprises Reed. Unnerves him.

Her words are equally disturbing. "Get rid of him."

"Phae?"

When she finally opens her eyes again, they are resolute. The Steward shudders. "It should have been done years ago. We were so careful. I was so _sure_ —" She stands. "No, don't worry about this. I'll handle it myself, as I should have."

His heart lurches. "No, Phae, you can't—"

"It is out of your hands, Warlord. Now leave me. I must… rest." She is cold, so cold.

His mouth is dry but he manages to say, "Yes, Lady." Reed pauses at the open door, says, "I am sorry, Phaedra."

She gives no reply.

  
  


**10 / Ebon Askavi**

Jaenelle folds the paper and vanishes it along the box that Lucivar brought. It is Witch who tells him, "Inform the Prince that his request has been heard and accepted."

Lucivar nods. He steps back and bows precisely as Protocol dictates.

Then his sister is back again and watching him carefully. "How is Daemon?"

"He misses you and that makes him pissier than usual."

"I miss him too."

Lucivar snorts. "Don't expect me to kiss him for you, Cat."

She grins.

Then he narrows his eyes and focuses on her. "Is there anything I should be aware of?"

She blinks at him. "Like what?"

"What did you do to make Father so grumpy?"

Jaenelle's unsure-but-game smile makes him stare. Perhaps asking was not the wisest course of action. Now that he takes a moment to think, he'd rather not know what his darling sister has been up to.

"Papa was helping me with a spell and, well, we didn't get the results we expected."

"Oh."

"Now that you're here…"

Lucivar backs up, grinning. "And now I'm leaving."

"But Lucivar!"

"Cat, I like all parts of me just where they are." Her look of confusion is kind of cute. "And whatever spell you are attempting might change that."

Her lips purse. "Lucivar, I haven't blown anyone up in ages."

"Uh-huh. And have you remembered to tell your husband about that incident?"

Her blush is answer enough.

"Then you don't ask me to participate, and I keep my mouth shut."

She eyes him. "Deal."

"Good. Now let's go find Father and cheer him up."

"How are we going to do that?"

"The usual method—arguing until he pitches us out of his study."

Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh eases some of his tight muscles. Linked arm-in-arm, they go in search of Saetan.

  
  


**11 / Ciraea**

The pup's head hangs low. Reed almost feels sorry for him—to be caught in this position. But the Queen demands answers.

"How long have you known this… Jakob?"

The guard is Seventh Circle, a nobody. Reed can see the fear in those eyes. "How did you know his name?" asks the young man.

"That's what you called him." Nyx's gravelly tone is full of disgust. "I've listened to all the reports, boy, and they say the same thing. _You let him get away!_ " snarls the Master of the Guard.

The guard is pale. "I-I didn't! I couldn't! _He's my brother!_ "

Reed sucks in a sharp breath. "Your… brother? By blood?"

At the other male's sudden reluctance to answer, Reed gestures to Nyx. When the Warlord Prince calls in a wicked, long-bladed knife, Whit—that's his name, Reed notes—makes a terrified noise.

"No!"

"No, what?" asks the Steward gently.

"No, he's not my brother by blood," answers the man.

"Ah." Reed leans back in his chair across from the guard being questioned. "You will, of course, supply me with all the details." Meeting Whit's eyes, he holds his gaze and says, "And, Lord Whit, you must not lie to me. If you do, you will not only be branded a traitor to the Queen, but we could… misunderstand your family's involvement with the rogues."

He purposefully glances to the towering figure of Nyx, who waits in the shadows of the interrogation room.

"Things might go ill for those who are innocent. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Reed" is the whisper.

"Good. Now begin."


	7. Chapter Four

****

  
_Kaeleer_

**1 / Ciraea**  


"I did not issue a search against your command, Prince Sadi." The Queen of Ciraea may be pale but she does not tremble in the face of the Warlord Prince's anger.

 _Such a foolish bitch,_ Daemon thinks. However, Phaedra is also technically correct in her statement. She did not send her guards to hunt down the band of rogues; they were lured. Or rather, Phaedra lured in one rogue dumb enough to challenge a Queen in the middle of a crowded street.

Daemon suspects, by the way the Steward continues to swallow nervousness, that there is more to the story than a simple victorious fight between the Queen's guards and the now dead male.

He slips his hands into his trouser pockets and croons, "You will remove the body from the wharf, Lady. The display is crude." He pauses before adding softly, "There are more efficient—" _and subtler_ "—ways to inspire fear."

Her lovely face twists into something dark and unappealing when she is pissed. "As you wish, Prince" is the smooth, cold reply.

He itches to eliminate her right then, bury her in a grave so deep no one will find it. The chill in the room warns all present not to push his temper. With an inherent feline grace, Daemon glides to the end of the large parlor. "Your Master of the Guard," he asks, "where is he?"

The flicker in Phaedra's eyes tells Daemon all that he needs to know.

"On Queen's business."

He can, of course, demand an explanation; instead, the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan accepts the answer with a gently brutal smile. Then he ends the meeting by walking out of the room.

Daemon leaves a trail of ice frosting the walkway as he strides to his Coach outside of the Queen's residence. Once settled, with the door Black-locked and the driver given instructions, Daemon allows his body to fall into a deceptively relaxed pose. His eyes slip closed as he considers all the possible moves in Phaedra's game.

The bitch has no idea against whom she plays. Daemon has spent most of his 1700 years cultivating and honing his technique in political games—in and out of the bedroom. He can bring down an entire Territory and none would be the wiser.

This is Kaeleer and here there is honor. He does not have to play the invisible opponent but years of subtlety and subterfuge are ingrained in him. Let Phaedra think she is safe. When the Queen moves her next pawn, she will meet with an army of one—and the Sadist will be pleased to finish the game.

  
  


**2 / minor SaDiablo estate**

Surreal slips her Jewel around her neck with a relieved sigh. She then checks that the knife in her boot is snugly in its sheath, grabs a jacket and heads downstairs.

Rainier is waiting in the main foyer. A light smile plays about his lips as she approaches. Surreal wonders how he can be so agreeable about their departure. Yesterday when she'd brought the subject up, he'd snarled that she wasn't ready to leave the estate. Surreal had told him in no uncertain terms that he was welcome to stay if he so pleased but she was leaving for Ciraea, with or without him.

"Rainier?"

"Hmm?"

Surreal eyes him closely. Yes, the Warlord Prince reeks of suspicious behavior. Surreal opens her inner barriers slightly, sniffing out for other familiar dark psychic scents. She is even more confused when there are none.

"Let's go."

"Yes, Lady," answers her companion. "The Coach is ready and—" Rainier calls in a picnic basket. "—the cook has prepared some traveling snacks."

She peeks into the basket. "More like a buffet." The cold spell on the food will keep it from spoiling until they are ready to eat.

Rainier grins as he vanishes the basket and presents his arm. She lightly rests her hand against his sleeve and they walk outside to the Coach. Her friend graciously holds the door open for her.

Surreal practically bounds into the Coach, ready to be away after three days of being cooped up and fussed over. A silky voice instantly stills her.

"Hello, darling."

The witch stares at Daemon for a split second before snarling—with a small amount of Craft to enhance the sound, " _Rainier!_ "

Rainier leans into sight from one step below her. "Surreal, you have to move before I can get in." He looks pleased with himself. Her hand flexes once.

Daemon's eyebrow rises. "I wouldn't bother. I imagine that Rainer is shielded."

She can get stab right through Rainier's strongest shield but Surreal takes the hint. Instead she points at where Sadi's ass is snuggled into the seat cushions and snaps, "You know I like the window seat."

Her cousin smiles. "Yes, you do." He resettles on the opposite side.

Well, that's better than nothing. When everyone is finally situated and ready to depart, Rainier brings out the picnic basket without a word. He rummages for a brief moment and then presents her with a wrapped gift.

Peeling back the wrapping, Surreal snorts once and breaks off a piece of fudge. After she enjoys the taste of it, the witch informs the two males, "I hope you brought plenty."

It turns out that they did.

  
  


**3 / Ciraea**

Jakob's brain does not comprehend the serious danger in which he has landed his family until the third sleepless night in a row. He is ensconced in a cheap, closet-sized room with a cot. It's in the seedier side of Mist Falls and he wastes the dark hours before dawn listening to the sounds of people carousing on the streets below until the nightlife dies down and they find shelter indoors. When the man does fall into a lull, between the noises of the other occupied rooms, he relives the nightmare of his youth, feels again the careening of the Coach, splintering of wood against the stone of the bridge.

He sees the Steward, a man he'd considered a friend, and hears the whisper, "I'm sorry. May the Darkness forgive me."

Jakob sits up with a shudder and scrubs both hands over his face. The cold splash of water has little effect. He feels like a spinning top in a child's game—out of control and with little idea of when the world will settle. His plans have been smashed to pieces by a cruel twist of fate.

Lord Reed knows that he is alive. His mother, no doubt, now also knows that he is alive. Will she come for him? Yes. Will she be pleased when he is caught, his tongue cut out before he can cry foul, and punished as a nameless traitor to the Queen?

Oh yes—of that he is certain.

The man lives in a world of regret. When Jakob leaves the room to acquire a meal, the smell of fresh bread baking nearby strikes him hard. In those moments, the ache for the comfort of the Rose & Thorn Inn supersedes reason. He shouldn't have left, should not have hurt Theia as he had. Jakob thinks of the only place he has called home in years and realizes that his need for vengeance has spoiled that safe place. He can never go back to the Inn, hear Ali's teasing or feel the firm, understanding weight of Theia's hand.

Hell, Jak even mourns the loss of Lawl, who is as much a fixture of the Inn as the rest.

And poor Whit, a kind-hearted young man like his mother, someone Jak considers to be an honorary little brother. Whit won't forgive Jak now that he—

_Shit._

Jakob jerks out of his morose mood.

_Whit knows._

Whit is a Queen's guard and Whit knows.

The sudden terror that Jakob experiences is not for himself; he is terrified for Theia's son, an innocent, helpless man suddenly thrown to the wolves who are the Queen's most trusted males. Whit won't escape interrogation or the slicing of Nyx's blade.

Jak's stomach lurches.

They will cut into Whit as they did to Fallon. He swallows against the bile in the back of his throat as that painful memory bleeds into his thoughts like a freshly opened wound.

~

_The young man had only one urgency driving him as he squeezed through the throngs of hushed people: Fallon, his Uncle Fallon, was going to die—will be executed for Jakob's death when he, Jak, still lives._

_He could save Fallon._

_The Master of the Guard has been part of Jakob's world since he was a small child; it is Fallon who taught an eager boy to ride, to sword-fight, and of the code of honor a Blood male must follow. He loves the Warlord Prince, and he has been loved by the Warlord Prince like family._

_Coming to the Queen's residence was rash. Now that he was there, alone and facing the past and an unyielding present, Jak was swamped by the terror of discovery. He knew, then, with a sick resignation that he did not have the courage to face his mother or her crime. He was not ready, would not survive._

_Jakob stepped to the side gate that separated the commoners from the courtyard. Fallon, flanked by guards, stood like stone, silent and face hard. The audience shared that silence with equally grave faces. The mourning had begun._

_He tossed out a sharp psychic cry aimed at that familiar mind. The man on the platform was ordered to kneel, but even as he did so, Fallon lifted his eyes to search the crowd._

_*Jakob?*_

_Tremors began to envelope Jakob's body. He had to wrap his hands around the ironwork of the gate to keep the shaking at bay._

_A second whisper, more sorrowful and despairing than the first, drifted as if lost. *Jak?*_

_*I'm sorry.* It was more than an apology—it was a plea for understanding._

_The condemned Warlord Prince dropped his head as the Queen called out the count, the man suddenly losing tension. Helpless and bound by his deep fear, Jak watched the executioner's blade arc into the air, glinting in the early morning light. He squeezed his eyes shut to the rest._

_Some people softly murmured prayers to the Darkness for Fallon's soul; some cried as Jak could not._

_He swore that on the day he returned to his mother's home, the debt would be paid in full._

~

Jakob won't stand by this time, too afraid to act. He won't allow those that he loves to suffer in his name. Though he cannot save Whit without storming the Queen's residence, he can, and will, save their family.

On the fastest Wind he can manage, Jak leaves Mist Falls. He does not stop for rest, driving onward and praying to the Darkness _please, keep my family safe_. Upon nearing the town, he drops from the Winds on the outskirts out of habit. A man involved in rogue business can never be too careful and knows not to use the regular landing webs to mark his coming and going. Jak slips onto the wharf of Havenstry through a roundabout way just as the shop-owners are unlocking doors and opening shutters. Some greet him by name with surprise on their faces.

When a hand catches his arm, interrupting a mad dash through the early morning risers, Jakob spins with a snarl twisting his mouth.

"Not that way, Prince," the woman speaks quietly.

It is Moira. Jakob flicks a glance across the open street before hesitantly saying, "Lady?"

She urges him towards a narrow gap between shops. "Come!"

Because he trusts her, and because only a foolish man refuses the assistance of Black Widow, Jak follows Moira into the shadowed alleyways.

 

 

"We aren't passing through Mist Falls?" It is a question rather than a statement.

"The Queen and I had a... conversation early this morning," Daemon tells his second-in-command and his secretary.

"Bet she was thrilled," mutters the witch.

He smiles.

Rainier eyes him, however. "I assume that she is still alive."

"At the moment, yes."

"Why?"

Despite the warning sleepy look in Daemon's eyes, Rainier breathes deeply and repeats his question. After a heartbeat or two, the Sadist acknowledges the legitimacy of the inquiry and subsides.

"Two reasons. A significant contingency of her guards—including the Master of the Guard—are missing."

The people sitting across from him take a moment to weigh the implications of his words. Then Surreal wants to know, "What's the second reason?"

"The servants are occupied—packing." A disgruntled footman carrying a large trunk had nearly avoided crashing into Daemon. The Warlord's horror was plain once he had realized _who_ he had almost flattened in his haste.

"Running?"

Daemon props his elbows on the armrests of his seat, steeples his fingers and rests long, black-tinted nails against his chin. "If Phaedra plans to relocate, then she does not intend to travel with her household." At their questioning looks, he explains further. "There were several storage Coaches lined around the back of the residence but no passenger Coach or carriage." He had sight-shielded and taken a stroll through the grounds before announcing his presence to demand a meeting with the Queen of Ciraea. Daemon has his own way of scoping a battlefield.

Surreal's green-gold eyes are sharp and speculative. "So Phaedra moves her residence to another part of Ciraea and you turn your attention in that direction, chasing a dead end."

"Precisely," he purrs. "Which is why we will track the Master of the Guard rather than the obvious trail."

Rainier's expression is thoughtful. "Queen Phaedra knows that there is nowhere in Kaeleer she can go and not be ousted by a Court once word spreads. So why does she need to buy time if she is going to remain in Ciraea?"

"That, Prince," Daemon confirms with hard gold eyes, "is what I intend to discover." His following question is spoken in a deceptively gentle voice. "Does the name Jakob of Havenstry sound familiar?"

Surreal and Rainier share a look. The Gray-Jeweled witch asks, "Is this Jakob a Warlord Prince with a birthright Opal? Because I can think of one place to look."

 _Interesting._ Daemon says, "Explain."

 

 

"Moira, I need to get the Inn! Theia and Ali—"

"There is danger," agrees the witch.

Jakob tugs her to a stop. The Warlord Prince demands, "Where?"

"Not where but when, Prince" is the cryptic answer.

Jakob snarls, dissatisfied. "I don't have time to unravel riddles, Lady. Queen's guards are coming."

"Yes," she says quietly. He goes still when a hand reaches out and brushes soft fingertips against his face. "The Queen is coming."

The words are foreboding and, more importantly, probably true. His mother will want personal assurance that he is dead—even if that means she has to leave the safety of her well-guarded palace to watch his blood spill.

Jakob pushes past the woman, intent on his destination. She says " _Jakob_ " once, fiercely, and he swallows against the frustration straining to break free. Moira talks lowly, knowing that he will listen. "I warned you long ago that if you stayed on this path, others would suffer. The webs have not changed, Jak."

"I know that I didn't listen, Moira. You can't understand why—"

"Reasons do not matter," she says gently. "You cannot walk another road now. There is only one choice left and this, Prince Jakob, I urge you to make. When help comes, accept it." She steps back. "If you refuse, all you love will burn."

An icy dread grips his heart. Moira's eyes travel the length of his body. She appears to come to some decision about him and nods once. Then the Black Widow points to the east and says, "Go. Tell Theia and her kin that my home is always open."

Jakob turns and runs.

 

The moment the entrance to the Inn darkens with a newcomer, the psychic scent which filters in screams _danger_. Theia is not close enough to greet the guest but even from down the hall she can tell when a predator has arrived. The woman dismisses the kitchen maid and the young Warlord with whom the girl had been caught dallying in the laundry room. The pair beats a hasty retreat from her scolding.

The Mistress of the Rose & Thorn Inn casually removes her hands from her dress pockets as she approaches him. It is part of an early training for all Blood youth. Always allow the Warlord Prince to see that you are weaponless unless you purposefully intend to provoke an attack. Their caste is particularly volatile; the male will rise to the killing edge in a heartbeat—and just as easily step onto the killing field.

The man's face is not entirely familiar but from the markings on his clothes she suspects his identity.

"Prince," Theia greets. "How may I be of service?"

The man's hard eyes flicker from her to the shadows of the long hallway. If he anticipates trouble then Theia has little doubt that he is prepared, has not come alone. She does not make the mistake of showing her suspicion or unsettled nerves. When he finally speaks, the Warlord Prince is gruff. "Are you Lady Theia?"

She inclines her head. "Yes."

He makes an aborted gesture with his hand, as if he is used to signaling when he talks. "I am Nyx, Master of the Guard of the Queen of Ciraea." He falls back into silence. Not a moment later, the double doors to the inn swing open. So, there are others to answer his summons. Two properly attired Queen's guards walk in with a man between them.

Theia inhales sharply, tightening her inner barriers against a mother's natural cry. They won't have the satisfaction of seeing or scenting her distress. Theia walks quietly past the tall, stoic guest and lifts the fourth man's face in her hands.

"Whit," she says softly. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Ma." Words whispered to her.

"Are you hurt?" His subdued reaction strikes terror into her very core.

Whit shakes his head in the negative. His eyes, usually full of boyish pleasure, are frightened and pained. When they catch hers, they insistently trying to convey an unspoken plea that she is unable to understand.

Theia looks directly at the unwanted and unwelcome man, then, standing close to the reception desk. "Prince Nyx." It is a mother's and a witch's warning.

"Lady."

"Why are you here?"

His smile is amused and ugly. "We're looking for a man that your son knows. That you know, Lady."

"We know most of the folks in this town," she doesn't quite snap. It would be better if she can resist challenging the Queen's Master of the Guard. Theia simply wants to get her son away from these men.

"A rogue." Something dark flashes across that scarred face. "You know a _rogue_... by the name of Prince Jakob."

On the inside she is trembling. One son already caught in the hands of potential butchers; another son, hunted. This is what she had feared from the beginning, since she discovered that Jakob's nightly wanderings were related to the illegal activity throughout Ciraea.

The woman pulls back her shoulders. "If there is something you wish to discuss, Prince, then I will be pleased to comply in private... and once you have released my son."

"Very well. Let him go, men." Those cold eyes never leave Theia's face. "If the pup acts against any order, kill him. Now. You and I, we will speak."

"Ma!"

"Hush, Whit," she tells her child. "The Master of the Guard abides by the Law as we all do." She silently dares Prince Nyx to deny that claim.

The dangerous man simply replies, "I obey my Queen."

"Then I pray that your Queen is a fair woman." With those last words, Theia turns on her heel and leads the way farther into the Rose & Thorn Inn. The enemy follows.

 

 

The Coach stops at the landing web rather than continuing to maneuver into the riverside town of Havenstry. Rainier shoots Surreal an expression that reads _this can't be good_. Daemon has stilled, his eyes gaining a faraway look that indicates he is communicating via a psychic thread. Then Sadi gives them both a sharp verbal command of "Stay." He exits the Coach, hands tucked in trouser pockets, and Surreal is mightily tempted to peek out of the doorway after him. As if on cue, a Black shield encompasses the Coach, successfully trapping the Warlord Prince's second-in-command and secretary until Sadi allows them to leave.

The beautifully cold man returns some minutes later. His expression causes them to snap skintight shields into place.

"Sadi?" Surreal asks softly.

"Prince," the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince addresses his secretary—and another Warlord Prince trained to kill, "I want you and Lady Surreal to find a discreet way into the Rose & Thorn Inn."

" _Daemon._ " Surreal puts a hint of a snarl into her voice.

When those glazed gold eyes fix on her, she meets them with a hard look of her own. The tension in Daemon dissipates. "There are check-points around the landing webs in Havenstry. The driver contacted me as soon as we were to be detained for inspection."

She narrows her eyes. "Then Phaedra already has men here. What did they say?"

Daemon shifts, then, so fluidly and without apparent purpose that Rainier stiffens by Surreal's side. It is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan who smiles gently and says, "The two guards were very informative. It seems that we have stumbled upon the missing pawn in Phaedra's game."

"The Master of the Guard," Rainier inputs.

"Yes. Prince Nyx is one step ahead of us—at the Rose & Thorn Inn."

Though she should know better by now, Surreal still asks. "The guards talked?"

Daemon's smile turns malevolent. The Sadist purrs, "What makes you think I bothered to ask?"

She lets the rest of her questions go. 

Rainier clears his throat. "If we are going to slip into the inn, where will you be?"

Daemon half-turns and releases the Black shield around the Coach. He tells them both, "I will be walking through the front door." Then Daemon steps from the Coach and vanishes in broad daylight.

They exit to the sight of the pale Coach driver nervously wringing his hands. Surreal takes a quick look around, gaze traveling to the distant rows of buildings. She tells the Warlord Prince at her side, "Looks like I'll get to kill someone after all."

Rainier gives no reply.

  
  


**4 / Ciraea**

Prince Nyx may be the Master of the Guard of the Queen of Ciraea, but Theia is female. Were he to insist that they seclude themselves in a room of the Inn for this private discussion, alone, she would have the right to decline. Nyx doesn't bother to ask, however, and so Theia is forced to send a distaff-to-spear thread to her barman.

*Lawl.*

*Lady* is the immediate, gruff answer. She recognizes the hint of concern that Lawl is unable to hide.

Her request is simple. *I need you.*

*Yes, Lady.*

Lawl meets them at the end of the hallway, silent like a ghost but there nonetheless. If Prince Nyx is ill-pleased to see Prince Lawl, his face betrays none of that displeasure. The three enter what amounts to Theia's personal office, a small backroom with a desk and two chairs where she does the Inn's bookkeeping. The door is left ajar.

"The Warlord Prince named Jakob is to be arrested by order of the Queen. Where is he?"

Nyx is a blunt man. For once, Theia does not approve of bluntness.

"What is his crime?" She folds her arms, tucking cold hands against the rough fabric of her dress.

"He is guilty of participation in the unlawful acquisition of the Queen's goods. He is a rogue, Lady," the Master of the Guard tells her in a hard tone, "by his own admission. The Queen's men, including your son, bear witness to this account."

_Oh Jak. What have you done?_

Lawl remains blank-faced and quiet, an observer and a support for which Theia is silently grateful. She steels her spine. "You won't find Prince Jakob here. He left Havenstry some weeks ago."

Instead of asking where, the Warlord Prince wants to know, "Why?"

She struggles internally for an answer and decides on "The matter is personal."

Nyx's eyes are sharp. "If you intentionally withhold information, you will be guilty of conspiracy with a convicted criminal."

"You won't find your answer in my inn," snaps Theia, suddenly too tired of playing word games. Her son—both of her sons—are at stake and she'll be damned if she doesn't show a little temper when it counts.

The Warlord Prince's eyes glaze over and she sucks in a breath but does not back away. Lawl shifts, then, from his position against the wall and steps in front of Theia. When those glazed eyes focus on the male instead of her, she swallows hard and places a hand on Lawl's arm.

"Gentlemen." Surprised at the steadiness of her own voice, Theia speaks softly. "I won't have blood shed in my home. Prince Nyx, you have asked your questions and I have answered as best I can. Unless you are going to shackle me this instant, I formally request that you vacate the Rose & Thorn Inn."

The only evidence that Nyx works to step away from the killing edge is in the tick of his jaw. Lawl nods once with a grunt of acceptance but does not yield his protective stance. Theia could kiss him, except she knows that Lawl does not appreciate affection from anyone.

After a seemingly long stretch of time, what can only be mere seconds, Prince Nyx releases his tight grip on the handle of the knife situated in his belt and steps back to give them both a cursory bow. She doesn't dare complain about his lack of courtesy.

"Wait."

Nyx halts in his exit, back to them both. The lines of tension are clear even through the man's layered uniform.

"My son," Theia asks. "Please release him."

"Your son," says the uncaring Master of the Guard, "has not been cleared of suspicion."

"He's innocent!" She is almost ashamed of the emotion in her voice.

Nyx looks over his shoulder at her then. "Is he? It is the Queen's right to decide his innocence."

"Then I wish to have an audience with the Queen." 

"You will meet her soon enough," the Warlord Prince replies. "If you are a smart woman, you won't hasten that meeting." He walks out.

Theia pushes past Lawl to the doorway. A short bark of an order from Nyx sends the men at the entrance into action. Lawl prevents her from following, from going to her son's side, with a quiet "This isn't the time, Theia" and the solid, iron hook of his arm.

No one, however, can keep her from seeing the hopelessness on her son's face as they escort him from the Rose & Thorn Inn. Theia feels something painful rip through her. It is a cry of " _Whit!_ "

 

 

Jak is not stupid. When he catches the glimpse of guards standing outside of the Inn, he doesn't move from the shadows hiding him. It is a hard task, not to fly across the street, past all the people who have stopped to stare or speculate to one another in whispers; it is, quite simply, difficult to push down the instinct to meet the foe invading his home territory and obliterate them.

If the Queen's guards are in Havenstry, then the Master of the Guard will not be far away. Jakob's gut says that Prince Nyx is, in fact, already too close at hand.

When the double doors to the Rose & Thorn Inn bang open, Jak clenches his fist at the sight of Whit being shoved down the front steps of the boardwalk into the street. The scent of another dark-Jeweled Warlord Prince hits him a moment before the Master of the Guard appears. Only the sharp pain of his nails breaking the skin of his palm steadies Jakob enough that he doesn't walk out into the open and issue a challenge.

No others leave the Inn—not Theia, Ali, or anyone Jakob considers family.

Nor is his mother is present, a small blessing in itself. He is terrified by the thought of Theia facing his mother.

Jakob slides back into the tight alleyway, letting the rough scrap of the boards against his flesh keep him grounded. _Retreat_ , he stubbornly tells himself.

_Retreat, Jakob, and find another way._

He risks too much by barging into the Inn now. Nyx will post a detail guard around the building to keep watch, and then more surreptitiously positioned men in adjacent buildings. It is a risk, even Sapphire sight-shielded.

But he needs to know if Theia and Ali are unharmed—has to—before he seeks confrontation with the enemy.

Jakob goes back the way he came and then heads south. There is one person who might be willing to help. That, too, is a risk; not simply because the man might refuse, but more so if the man does not. 

Jakob easily jimmies open the side door of an old one-story building, noting the activation of light-Jeweled alarm spells as he does so. Once Jak is inside the hallway, a man's voice calls out, "Hello?"

He waits patiently, unmoving against a backdrop of peeling wallpaper might have been a lively shade of yellow a century ago. Boards creak and a ball of witchlight floats from down the opposite end. Jakob sees the dark shape of a man shadowed in the entrance that separates the public store from a private workshop.

The Prince draws in a quick breath. "You shouldn't have come back."

He answers honestly. "I had to."

Silence. Then Jak's oldest friend closes the distance between them in long strides. The man takes ahold of Jakob's arm, steering him into a tool room that hasn't seen a dust mop in some years.

"Jak," Eyan whispers lowly. "Guards are searching the town."

"I know."

"The men are scared shitless. And they can't pack up and run for fear of sticking out."

" _I know._ "

Eyan makes a sound of frustration. "Then tell me what to do!"

Jakob closes his eyes. "I can take care of it, but first I need you do something for me." He opens his eyes and looks at the Prince steadily. "I need you to go to the Inn."

"Jak, Nyx isn't just passing through. He's looking for _you_. The Inn—"

"Is the primary target. Damn it, Eyan, I understand that! My _family_ is in there!"

"And what about mine? If I'm caught, Nyx won't give a shit what happens to my wife or kids. He'll—" The man breathes shakily, and Jakob can almost taste the man's fear. "—he might use them against me."

A man like Nyx would do just that. They both know it.

"Eyan, please. I swear to you, if you do this for me, I won't let anyone in Havenstry suffer. Just shield Theia and Ali for me. That's all I'm asking."

The Prince moves a pace back, an uncertainty still clear in his eyes. "How?" he wants to know. "How are you going to stop them?"

Jakob sighs. "I'll give the Queen what she wants. Me."

"That's madness."

"Is it?" His smile is bitter. "Phaedra will live to regret getting what she asked for." He turns away. "That I can promise you."

 

 

"Shit" mutters the witch using Rainier as a prop.

*Tell me again why we can't simply pass through the wood.*

*Shut up and push. I can almost reach the ledge.*

Rainier grunts, uses Craft to steady his bad leg and fairly heaves Surreal bodily through the small window. He hears her sharp curse as her boot catches on the edge of the frame. A fierce kick of a leg, an unpleasant _crack_ of wood combined with a quick stab of the witch's stiletto, and Surreal finally makes it inside.

*All clear?*

*Except for these damn cobwebs* comes the grumpy reply.

Rainer plants his foot as if standing on an invisible box, secures a hold on the wooden sill and easily lifts himself through the pried-open window. Surreal stops smacking the dust from her trousers to turn and glare at him.

It's not his fault. She had said "Give me a lift to the window and I'll break in" so he'd only been doing what she asked. Rainier will never understand how the female brain works.

*We made it.*

The mental equivalent of a snort. *And we didn't get caught by the guards.*

*I doubt we would have been noticed walking through the front door. You can sight shield with the Gray, Surreal.*

She isn't paying attention to him now, absently reaches back and squeezes his arm. Rainier sighs forlornly at the new smudge of dust sullying his jacket sleeve. *Too easy. Besides, Sadi said to go around the back. Do you want to explain to him why we didn't follow orders?*

He wisely doesn't argue with that point.

Rainier lifts up the corner of a sheet to reveal a stack of chairs. *This must be a storage room.*

Surreal slides around covered furniture to the door. He stands behind her, both of them quiet and listening. When he feels the spell she wraps around herself, he sends a light psychic touch brushing against her mind.

*I'll go first.*

Surreal looks at him sharply.

He does not wait for an answer. Rainier passes through the door, his sight shield in place. This room is at the end of the short side of an L-shaped hallway. He stands at the corner and surveys the long hall that leads to the front doors of the Inn. It is empty. A quick glance up the main staircase, and one would believe that this place never experiences much business.

He walks back to the storage room where Surreal waits but stops short at a light flicker of darker power against his shield. *Surreal?*

*Here. Drop your sight shield.*

He doesn't hesitate. Surreal appears slightly to his left and behind him. Her eyes are smiling though her mouth is not. *I extended my shield to cover us both. It can't be any fun if you can't see me.*

*No,* he agrees. *It isn't.*

Rainier confirms that the bartender and the Mistress of the Inn are in the open dining area; if there were any customers enjoying a brew in the early afternoon hours, they have departed for a safer haven than a building under watch by Queen's guards. He cracks open his first inner barrier and senses several presences along the upper floor, mostly lighter Jeweled than his own power—probably the hired help.

They settle in a corner where the space beneath the staircase and a side closet meet. Rainier lets the tension tightening his shoulders keep him sharp and aware. Surreal is silent, as a state she always falls into when on a hunt. Now they only need to wait for the more dangerous predator to enter the game.

  
  


**5 / Ebon Askavi**

Lucivar vanishes the wooden box that Witch hands him. "What else?"

Her eyes are a deep midnight blue. "Everything Daemon will need is inside."

The Eyrien waits. Jaenelle looks at him for a long moment. Then she huffs. "And tell my husband that I bought tickets to a play in Amdarh. I expect him home before then."

With a grin, Lucivar rolls his shoulders. "Better him than me." When Jaenelle smiles, his stomach drops. "Cat?" 

"Marian bought tickets too."

 _Shit._ He grimaces.

His Queen laughs, says, "Poor Lucivar" and leaves him alone in one of the Keep's sitting rooms. Lucivar decides prudently that he should return to Ciraea. At least it will offer a battlefield with rules he understands.

The Eyrien makes a sharp turn of a corridor towards the nearest courtyard and runs into his father instead.

Saetan raises an eyebrow. "I take it Jaenelle finished her web."

Interesting. "Web?"

"For Daemon."

"Guess she did. I'm headed back to Ciraea now."

"You'll be careful."

His mouth pulls into a lazy, arrogant smile. "Worried?"

His father considers him from head to toe. Saetan's reply is dry. "Perhaps not."

With a bark of laughter, he marches out into the open air and takes flight.

  
  


**6 / Ciraea**

Eyan is eyed with care as he strolls down the boardwalk whistling like an oblivious fool. He is, of course, halted before he can enter the Rose & Thorn Inn.

“State your name and business, Prince.”

“Prince Eyan.” He takes care to wobble a little. The smell of ale on his clothes is strong. “And as fer my business—that’s obvious,” he slurs.

The guards shift. One of them makes a face and mutters about local drunks.

Eyan explains with humor lacing his tone, “The Inn serves the best brew fer miles. You oughta try a drop.”

One of the guards tells him bluntly, “You might want to find another watering hole, Brother.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I’m an old man and habits are hard t'change. You’re welcome to come in with me. I can afford the company. Got paid yesterday.” He grins stupidly and pats his pockets with an absentminded air.

A young pup, barely old enough to serve in the guard by the looks of him, says with the bounce of youth, “He sauced! Looks just like my uncle after a hard night pulling on the bottle.”

“Hey, boyo,” Eyan offers, “have ye even tasted a real man’s drink? C’mon, the place'll—"

“That’s enough.” A guard shoves him to the double doors. “We’ve got work to do.” A stern finger prods his chest. “You, stay out of trouble.”

“Aye, Sir.” He makes a sloppy salute and stumbles into the Inn.

As soon as the doors hide him from the guards’ view, Eyan straightens and strides to the tavern. Theia is seated at a table, a plate of untouched food set before her. Lawl, surprisingly, is seated across from the Mistress of the Inn and looks about as grim as Eyan has ever seen him—and Lawl supposedly forgot the meaning of fun a long, long time ago.

"Theia?" Eyan pulls up a chair. "You all right?"

"Eyan." Her eyes are haunted. 

He reaches across the table to take her hand, is worried that it is so cold. *Jakob sent me.* Intense worry strikes his senses hard. Lawl turns a mean look on Eyan. He ignores it. 

*Jak's here?* It is a quiet thought, like a whisper.

*Yes. Theia, the Master of the Guard—*

She laughs bitterly. *He's come and gone, though I imagine not far.*

His reply is sharp. *Did Nyx threaten you?*

*He's got Whit, Eyan. Whit didn't even know.*

*I'm sorry, Lady.*

Eyan asks Lawl, "Could I have something strong?"

The bartender glances at Theia who nods. Lawl heads to the bar.

"Where's Ali?"

The lines in Theia's face make her look beyond her age. "I don't know. One of the kitchen maids told her about Whit before I had a chance and no one has seen her since." 

*Try not to worry. Whit's a strong man; he'll be fine.* Eyan knows that his words are an empty comfort in the face of a mother's fear. A steaming mug appears in front of the Prince. He holds it between two hands, smelling the heavily laced cider. A quick taste confirms that it has more bite than sweetness. Just what he needs. He offers the mug to Lady Theia. 

She takes it with a sigh. "I suppose this is Lawl's special hot cider."

He smiles softly. "Just as good as the last time I warmed my bones with it."

"It's more likely to eat a hole through your stomach lining," the witch tells him with a hint of tartness.

He is pleased when she sips at the cider; that pleasure grows when color comes back into her face.

"Are you staying?" she asks quietly.

"For a while."

"We'll need something solid too. I'll check with the cook." She picks up her plate and disappears through the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. 

Lawl, cleaning rag in hand, says on a narrowly aimed spear thread as he wipes down the bar counter, *Jak willing to pay the price?*

Eyan shudders once. *Yeah. He is.*

*May the Darkness have mercy on him.*

 

 

*Do you know him?* asks Surreal, indicating the newcomer to the inn—a Prince that is obviously a good friend of Mistress Theia's.

Rainier is grim-faced. *We've met. The wagons used for the latest theft were his family's.*

Surreal shifts and narrows her eyes. *He's a rogue, then.*

*I never confirmed my suspicion but I imagine so.*

*And now he's here, settling in.* 

How deeply involved is the staff of the Rose & Thorn Inn with the rogues? Surreal weighs what she knows so far against what is becoming evident. The Inn is the focal point for the conspiracy.

The Warlord Prince nudges her. *Feel that?*

The dark power tingling along her nerves is unmistakable. Sadi has arrived.

 

 

Daemon isn't one for loud entrances like his brother. He simply need stand at the bottom of the front steps, drop his sight shield, and watch chaos ensue.

One of the guards pales like he might faint at the sight of the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. Daemon greets them collectively with a feral smile, saying nothing, and enters the Rose & Thorn Inn. If a guard or two have dashed away to alert Prince Nyx that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan has arrived, well, Daemon won't detain them. The sooner that Nyx learns who the real enemy is, the better. Sadi has no time for fools.

He immediately senses his second-in-command and secretary. He sends a thought along a Gray thread. *How many?*

Surreal answers. *The innkeeper and her bartender are in the tavern. There's another Prince with them. May be a rogue. No sign of Jakob. Servants along the upper floors, in the kitchen.*

Daemon glides to the tavern, sparing a short glance over his left shoulder at the glimmer of the sight-shielded pair by the staircase. *Send those on the second floor and in the kitchen home, Surreal. Then come to the tavern.* 

After a moment, which tells Daemon that Surreal is communicating his orders to Rainier, the sight shield drops and Surreal waves her stiletto at him before marching up the staircase, Rainier in close attendance.

Daemon pushes aside his momentary amusement. The Mistress of the Inn has already stepped out of the kitchen to greet him.

"Prince Sadi," The witch's voice holds regret—and something more. "I am sorry for the inconvenience but the Rose & Thorn Inn is not available to accommodate visitors today." 

He walks to the bar, hands in trouser pockets, and sits. He smiles. "One drink, then?"

Lady Theia—he remembers correctly, never forgets those who catch his attention—gestures at her bartender. That doesn't stop the male from plunking down a mug with a sour look. Daemon raises an eyebrow. He waits to see if the man will serve him ale or wine.

He receives a glass of red wine after the Mistress shoots the bartender a look that could flay skin from bones. Daemon takes a sip, places the glass to the side, plants his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers. 

"Tell me why the Inn is closed today, Lady Theia."

It isn't a request.

"The matter is personal, I am afraid, Prince."

"The Queen's guards stationed outside do not undertake requests made by _citizens_ ," he replies pleasantly. "That was your first try. I'll give you two more—and then I'll take what I want to know."

The Prince seated at the table has frozen. 

Then the witch speaks in a slow and heavy voice. "The Inn is under surveillance by the Master of the Guard." He waits patiently for her to continue. The next words are almost a whisper. "A member of my staff has been accused as a rogue."

"Is he?"

"Yes."

Daemon leans back, picks up the wineglass again and savors the taste of a decent red wine. "Where is Jakob?" he asks mildly.

The toppling of a chair is hardly surprising. The Warlord Prince watches languidly as the un-introduced male takes Lady Theia's arm, panicked words slipping out in rapid-fire succession. "Theia, don't say anything!"

She jerks her arm from him. Her words are hot. "What good has silence brought us, Eyan? My _son_ has been tortured by a cold-blooded bastard!"

"And what about Jak? Do you know what will happen to him? Do you even care? Is he not _family_ enough?"

The slap resounds loudly in the large room. 

Daemon puts a bit of thunder into his voice. " _Enough._ "

The woman steps back, hand to her mouth. The Prince says nothing of the abuse she just dealt him, only comments in a low tone, "No amount of hurt you inflict on me will compare to the pain I've condemned my family to." Then he meets Daemon's gold eyes. "If you came to win, then you won't be disappointed. None of us can stand against you. Not _you._ "

Daemon watches as the Prince floats his hastily abandoned chair into an upright position and re-seats himself, head falling forward into hands. Surreal and Rainier enter the tavern through the kitchen area. The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan stands, then, and tells them all in a smooth, chilling voice, "I have no mercy for liars. I won't ask again: where is Jakob?"

 

 

Lucivar bypasses the family estate outside of Ciraea and sends out a call when he crosses the province border.

*Daemon?*

*Prick.* The response is delayed long enough that the Eyrien increases his speed.

He rarely flies through this part of Dhemlan. *Give me something to track.*

A moment later, Lucivar feels a dark pulse—darker than the Ebon-gray—beckoning him through the Darkness. 

*On my way, Bastard.*

It worries him that Daemon doesn't take the time to answer.

  
  


**7 / Ciraea**

Jak is saved from doing something reckless like jumping in front of Prince Nyx to declare war by an out-of-breath guard that skids to a stop not ten feet from where Jakob is hidden behind an abandoned cart of wares.

"Sir!"

The Master of the Guard has a blade unsheathed and ready before the young man can stammer out the next words.

Then Jakob hears what the pup is telling Nyx and feels weak.

"Prince Sadi is here!"

Nyx slowly lowers his weapon and glances around. Jakob, in that moment, cannot blame the man for that display of caution. "Where?" is the short snap of a reply.

"At the inn, Sir. The one you told us to guard. He just—" The guard swallows noisily. "—appeared and went right in."

Nyx's response could almost be considered hesitant. "Pass the word. Hold positions. Do you understand?"

Quick nods and hasty agreements from the circle of men around the Master of the Guard. 

The Warlord Prince sheathes his blade as he speaks to an older guard in roughly. "I want a group of men waiting in the back and side alleys of the Inn. Then pull those that can be spared from the central landing web and have them meet me in the street."

A searing glance sends all the guards scrambling to obey. From Jak's crouch, he can see Nyx breath deeply and flex those gloved fists as if the air smells of a call to battle. The Master of the Guard calls in a short yellow ribbon, so strange a sight in the hands of a warrior, and strokes it once between calloused fingertips before handing the ribbon to a lingering guard.

Whatever message passes between the two males, Jakob does not know. The guard says "Aye, Sir" and walks away. Then Jakob has no more time for contemplation over that bit of secrecy. Nyx is striding down the street to the Rose & Thorn Inn.

Jakob follows.

 

Whit.

_You idiot._

Ali forbides herself to cry. The tears are present in her eyes anyway.

Finding the familiar backdoor, she gives it one mighty _BOOM_. Thinking of only how good that felt, and ignoring how desperate she really is, Ali raises her fist to pound on it again when the door swings open.

Moira's face can only be described as severely displeased. Then the Black Widow recognizes who is so blatantly banging on her door and her expression changes to something much softer.

"Come in, girl."

"Oh, Moira," Alia cries. "Whit is in trouble! The whole Inn, we're all in trouble."

"I know" floats the word from around a corner. Then Moira comes back into her kitchen and points at a chair. "Sit. There is much to do."

Ali sits, unable to think of anything better at the moment except giving into her tears. "We've been hand-fasted _forever_ and we thought that once Whit made it into the Queen's court there would be enough income to buy a small cottage and..." She is babbling through her tears and can't seem to stop. A cup is pressed into her hand.

"Drink," Moira tells her.

A hand strokes her hair as she obeys and downs a majority of its contents, barely tasting the tea. Somehow, the brew does soothe her nerves.

"I don't know what to do," whispers the young girl.

"What must happen now is not for you to choose, Alia," the Black Widow tells her kindly. "Rest easy. Your Whit will survive."

Ali's voice is less shaky. "Are you sure?"

"I have seen it."

She looks up, searches that face of indeterminate age. "The Queen is holding Havenstry hostage. How can any good come of that?"

"If the Queen takes an interest in us, then so shall _he_."

"Who?" Ali has not met too many Black Widows in her short life, but Moira is the most puzzling of them all.

The older witch looks at the far wall with a tiny smile curving her lips. "Dhemlan's appointed caretaker."

Ali almost chokes on the rest of her tea. She gasps, "Prince Sadi? He's _here?_ "

The Black Widow Moira looks too pleased. "Yes. Ciraea needs him now."

 

 

"This place is awful," Phae complains as she pulls a shawl tightly around her shoulders. The look on her face is a mix of disgust and weary acceptance.

"No one expects to find the Queen of Ciraea in a rat's nest," Reed replies. "Any more luxurious and people would want a second look at the guests in town."

The knock on the door interrupts the woman's reply—a sharp one by the way her mouth has pinched at the edges.

Reed positions himself so that he is blocking the view into the room. Though the young Warlord at the door wears a large overcoat, there are evident flashes of a guard's uniform beneath when the boy shifts on his feet. "Message, Sir" is the nervous greeting.

A yellow ribbon is called in and thrust under Reed's nose. He takes it delicately. "Received, Warlord." The door is shut in the man's face.

"Was that the maid with extra blankets?"

Reed doesn't bother to explain that requesting an extra _anything_ in this seedy hotel is likely to be laughed at and subsequently ignored. "No." He holds up the ribbbon. "From the Master of the Guard."

Phaedra rises slowly from her perch on the edge of a chair and opens her hand. He gives it to her. There is an intense look in her eyes. 

"Phae, we agreed that the message would be verbal. An alert when the rogue was caught." _Didn't you trust me with a change of plans?_ He can't ask that because he is afraid of the answer.

"Yes," she says absently as she turns away. "I required another favor of Nyx."

He waits. When she says nothing else, Reed sighs and touches her covered shoulder. "Please, don't keep me in the dark. Not when your life is at stake."

The Queen barely acknowledges his words. "Nyx has found what I'm looking for."

Is that his heart pounding so loudly? 

"I must go to Havenstry."

Arguing with Phaedra is futile. He manages to say in a soft voice, "I will find us transport, Lady." He bows, turns and exits their small room to do just that.

When Reed returns, arrangements made and a small meal in hand—the best he could find in this part of a tiny, backwater town—Phaedra is gone.


	8. Chapter Five

  
_Kaeleer_

**1 / Ciraea**  


The Master of the Guard is going to die. Not that Jakob wouldn't be glad to have one less enemy to worry about, but there have to be cleaner ways to commit suicide than challenging Sadi. Of course, who is Jakob to talk? He has already made the mistake of revealing his existence to the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

A man, Jak supposes, is allowed to be foolish once in a while. 

A Warlord Prince cannot afford to be foolish.

He keeps a good distance as Nyx walks the streets of Havenstry, often not following until there are several people around to mask his psychic scent. There is a Green Jewel on a short chain around Nyx's neck. Jakob does not make the assumption that this is the man's Offering Jewel. Rumors are that Nyx is much stronger than his Queen, though she holds his leash. Phaedra, Jakob knows, wears a light Opal. 

As a young boy, Jak had been proud that he wore an Opal like his mother. Now he is thankful that it was his Birthright and merely the stepping stone to a darker power. A better chance of survival.

Nyx steps onto the boardwalk around the corner from the Inn. A group of guards gather close to him and Nyx issues orders that Jakob cannot hear. Then the men break up as the Master of the Guard strides past them to the front entrance of the Rose & Thorn. When Nyx walks inside without a moment's hesitation, Jakob knows that something very bad is about to happen—and that only a man with a trick up his sleeve would meet Daemon Sadi on a potential battlefield. He mutters, "May the Darkness have mercy," and tucks into the back of a growing crowd to watch and wait.

 

Eyan explains the circumstances revolving around Jakob—that their rogue leader is in town but what his plans are is anyone's guess.

The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan merely raises one elegant eyebrow.

Eyan is unsure of how to respond. Just when he thinks that he is about to put his foot in his mouth—or incite Sadi's rage—Theia saves him from a grave mistake.

"Prince Sadi, Jakob—" she pauses, says, "—my son is strong-willed, passionate in his beliefs and not always careful, but he has a good heart."

Sadi's eyes are intent on Theia. "Your son."

The witch raises her chin. "Yes. Not by blood but by choice."

Lady SaDiablo has a bluntness foreign to most Aristos. "We're all someone's child, sugar. That doesn't give a male the right to break the Queen's laws."

Eyan finds it difficult to look away from her, like a curious child at a spectacle; those sharp green-gold eyes and exotic face whisper of the rarely seen, fiercely private race called the Dea al Mon. Even more so, her psychic scent tastes dark—much darker than most of the Blood that Eyan knows.

Theia has that look in her eyes that means trouble. Eyan reaches across the table to take her hand and squeeze it. That action, at least, stops her from saying something uncomplimentary to Sadi's cousin.

He addresses Lady SaDiablo and Prince Sadi, knowing that now is the time to speak. "What I have, as a person, is the right to defend myself." 

The slight incline of the Warlord Prince's head spurs Eyan on. 

"You can accuse us of wrong-doing and I'm not sayin' the truth is any opposite. But I don't lightly break the law—not unless I can't make a better choice." His voice goes rough with memory. "The Queen before Phaedra—she was a good woman and a good Queen. When she died, every Ciraean heart mourned the loss. Phaedra—she's not lived up to her promises and I don't think that she intends to. Ciraea has always been my home. I want my children to grow up here. I want them to be able to tell their children that this is a fair and just land."

No one indicates approval of his words but they do give him the courtesy of listening. 

"We don't harm the land or the people—but we cannot turn a blind eye. We've been quiet in our misery for far too long." He sighs. "You don't understand. I've heard the tales of the taint in Terreille. I don't want that to happen here but I'm afraid that it will. So I choose to step up to the line—and so do others. You call us rogues. I call us Ciraea's cry for justice."

"I lived in Terreille before the Purge, Prince. I understand very well why a male defies a Queen." 

Eyan tries not to think on why Sadi's words have that soft, bitter tinge. 

Something unnerving— _unbalanced_ —flickers through those hard gold eyes. "Going rogue is more than defiance; it is a declaration of war." The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan asks too softly, "Do you want war?"

His heart says _no_ but he thinks _if it's the only way_.

Sadi watches him with an almost sleepy look, and Eyan feels cold despite that the tavern is always warm. 

"I can find him," Lady SaDiablo says quietly, breaking the tension. 

Eyan's stomach drops because _him_ means _Jak_. She is offering to hunt Jakob.

Sadi looks at the witch, but whatever reply he intended to give is abandoned in the next heartbeat. The man pivots in the direction of the entrance, slips his hands into his trouser pockets and generally scares the shit out of everyone with the croon, "It seems that we have company."

Eyan stares at the stiletto that the narrow-eyed witch calls in and doesn't envy the man who meets her in a fight. The other Warlord Prince, the one who Eyan has encountered before, has kept silent and appears to be the least dangerous of the group. Eyan realizes that his assumption is wrong as the man swiftly takes a position beside the door, arms loose and face suddenly so intense that the Prince does not doubt that this male knows how to fight—and win.

Then the one of the people Eyan fervently had hoped to never see enters and he wants to excuse himself from the imminent bloodshed. Instead he pulls Theia from the table and over to the far end of the bar. Lawl has circled the bar to Theia's other side. Eyan is only vaguely surprised at the mean-looking knife in the Warlord's hand.

He is strangely glad that Sadi is here to face Queen Phaedra's Master of the Guard, despite that an unleashing of the Black is likely to send them all careening back to the Darkness.

Prince Nyx steps into the room. There is a moment of bated breath while Eyan, Theia, and Lawl wait for a fatal blow to land.

"Prince Sadi" greets the Master of the Guard.

"Prince Nyx." That croon deepens, turning Eyan's insides to water. "Welcome to the Rose & Thorn Inn—though I suspect that you have already paid a visit."

"I have." The man doesn't look fearful. Eyan wonders if Nyx is simply too much of a fool.

Sadi's smile is chilling. "Unfortunately, darling, that was your mistake."

Eyan watches as the Master of the Guard jerks once and goes motionless. There is a sensuousness in Sadi's glide, in the way that he cups Nyx's chin with one hand and leans in to whisper in the man's ear. But then Nyx, whose eyes had unfocused with desire, blanches to a sickly color. Sadi steps back and exits, his captive bound by the Black and floating helplessly in pursuit of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. 

Lady SaDiablo glances at their tight little group and follows Sadi. 

The Warlord Prince remains in the tavern. His face is grim and his voice even grimmer as he says, "Prince Sadi has... another matter to attend. He asks that you wait for his return."

Shit.

Unable to decline, everyone settles down at the bar. Eyan cannot stop imagining what must be happening to Prince Nyx—and if they will be the next ones to suffer.

 

When Daemon Sadi casually strolls out of the Inn, the instantaneous wave of fear from all corners of the street drives a wicked punch into Jakob's gut. Then Prince Nyx is just as casually tossed by an invisible hand past Sadi and into the middle of the street. The man lands rather ungracefully and slowly staggers to his feet. 

There is a heat in Nyx's voice when he snarls, "You bastard!"

Sadi has a strange look on his face. Jakob has never seen anything like it—not even when he faced the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan some weeks ago.

"Your Queen ignored my orders and will answer for her actions. For this reason, I will allow you and any male who serves the Queen of Ciraea to walk away." Sadi adds simply, "If you stay, I will kill you."

No sooner than the announcement is made, there is an undercurrent of psychic threads running through the air. 

Nyx commands, "To me!" The guards visible in the street seem to unfreeze. However, one by one, they slowly unsheath their weapons and lay down arms. 

Jakob watches as Nyx whirls on Sadi and growls something too low for a by-stander's hearing. Sadi looks bored in the face of Nyx's rage, despite that the other male issues a blatant challenge.

"Don't be a fool," warns the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

Any person can clearly see that Nyx vibrates with the wildness of a man on the killing edge. Sadi is still, so very still, that Jakob wonders if the man is waiting for the first strike or if, more frighteningly, that stillness is a prelude to something dark and terrible.

He doesn't want to find out. Slowly but surely, Jakob edges back. Others are responding the same way, not fleeing, not daring to ignite a battle that will tear apart Havenstry, but all the same retreating from the streets with measured, careful steps. 

Can they get out of range in time? How far does an unleashing of the Black travel?

He imagines being swept away in a wave of power like the rush of a swollen river. Choked by it, sure to be crushed and drowned.

Once Jakob is between two crowded stores, in a place he knows well, the man turns to disappear. His thoughts, until then only consumed with self-preservation, grow sharp with the word _family_ and _death_.

Sadi was in the Rose & Thorn Inn.

_With his family._

Jakob does the less sensible but more important thing: he quickly loops through the winding side streets until his feet carry him to the back door of the Inn. Without a second thought, he goes inside.

  
  


**2 / Ciraea**

Lucivar lands close to a group of huddled Queen's guards almost pissing themselves with fear and knows that his brother is definitely in town. In a single sharp glance, he assesses the field. A hooded figure stands not far away, tightly gripping a young, stammering Warlord's arm. A female voice carries.

"There is a tavern I seek. You must take me there."

Lucivar's upper lip curls at the imperious undertone of those words. Then he catches the psychic scent despite a light-Jeweled masking spell and thinks, _Queen_.

The Ebon-gray-Jeweled Eyrien Warlord Prince takes a moment to consider the implications of a Queen attempting to protect her identity. In a snap decision and a flick of Craft, Lucivar trades out his Offering Jewel for Birthright Red.

His voice doesn't need to be Craft-enhanced. "This town's got more than one tavern, Lady."

The Warlord is released and quickly scurries back to the group of guards. The witch approaches, face still half-hidden in the darkness of a cowl. She appraises him first, then says, "It... belongs to a family member. I am needed there." She pauses. "Thorn—the Thorn Inn."

He scratches his chin. "Know of a Rose & Thorn Inn..."

"Yes! Show me."

_Not only a liar but a stupid bitch as well._

When she reaches for him, Lucivar automatically steps back, teeth gritted against the urge to strike out. If she touches him, his first reaction will be to rip off her arm. Perhaps a trace of that sentiment is clear because the witch drops her hand and pulls the long robe more tightly about her, as if for protection.

There is little that will protect her from Lucivar—or where he plans to take her.

With a pivot, Lucivar strides in the direction from which most people are running. He doesn't bother to check if she follows simply because he knows that she will.

Won't Daemon be surprised?

Lucivar grins to himself.

 

*Hey, Bastard, what smells like a bitch and talks like a bitch?*

Daemon sighs mentally in response to the current of mischief running along the spear thread. *Prick. As much as I would love to play your game, I am rather invested in one of my own.*

*Fine. You'll just have to discover the answer when she arrives.*

His thought is silky smooth and has just a hint of the Sadist in it. *And who would that be, Prince?*

*The greatest Ciraean bitch of them all. Found her asking for the Inn. I volunteered as a personal escort.*

Daemon feels the Sadist murmur his appreciation. _Phaedra_.

At that moment, the Master of the Guard decides to foolishly call in a weapon. A phantom hand knocks it from Nyx's grasp. Daemon feeds a little more power into his Black shield and says, "Not that I won't take great pleasure in killing you, but let's wait for the rest of the participants, shall we?"

He finds Nyx's bared teeth quite amusing.

 

 

They are one street from their destination when Lucivar receives the sharp question, "Where is everyone going?"

The Queen stops walking the instant that Yaslana does. She repeats her question.

His shoulders lift in a shrug. "Probably to hide."

He sees the moment she realizes that she failed to take heed of her surroundings. "W-What do you mean?"

His mouth curves in a lazy, arrogant smile. "You've pissed off my brother."

She stares at him for too long, face paling. Then the bitch tries to bolt. Lucivar grabs the back of her robe, stitches ripping loudly, and hauls her into place. 

A hand immediately tries to claw at his face and the warrior easily captures her wrist, squeezing until the woman gasps at the pain. Her eyes are wet. 

"Don't waste your tears on me," he warns.

"Let go! I demand that you let me go!"

Because she refuses to stop struggling, and he doesn't want to carry the bitch over his shoulder, Lucivar unfurls his wings and launches them into the air. That makes matters rather simple. 

Especially when he dives down the other side of a building, the woman screaming, and sees Daemon and a very angry-faced Warlord Prince squaring off in the street.

The terrified witch drops to her knees, limp, when they land. Lucivar snaps his wings open once, decidedly, and then folds them in.

"Bastard."

Daemon looks from Lucivar's smug expression to the crying Queen and back again. An eyebrow lifts. "Was that necessary?"

"Oh yeah."

" _Phaedra!_ " The shout is almost distracting. The unfamiliar Warlord Prince charges forward with an enraged battle cry. Lucivar lifts the corner of his mouth, calls in his war blade, and shifts to the proper stance. But he does not get to meet the other male in combat because Nyx is slammed back to the ground by a burst of Black and pinned there.

Daemon does not pause in his glide past the panting and crazed Master of the Guard. Lucivar steps aside so that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan can address an errant Queen under his rule.

"Hello, darling," croons his brother.

Phaedra lowers the hand against her mouth. "Y-You can't treat me like this! I am the Queen!"

Daemon's eyes are glazed and sleepy; the look in them too familiar. Lucivar shifts, just enough to draw the Sadist's attention. *What did Jaenelle make for you?*

Those eyes stare into him, then flick over to the Queen of Ciraea. *A token for the Queen.*

Lucivar isn't sure what to make of that. *Do you need it now?*

*Not yet.*

*Do you need me?*

Finally, the Sadist subsides enough that Lucivar can see a glimpse of his brother beneath that cold face. *Not yet.*

"Well, since you're busy, Bastard—" Lucivar idly runs a thumb along the edge of his war blade, looking at Nyx, "—I'll go have a drink."

The Queen looks like she wants to ask the Eyrien to stay, despite that she must know he is more likely to help Daemon pick her apart than act as a buffer.

Daemon meets Lucivar's eyes as Lucivar's shoulder brushes past him. "Have fun, Prick. I'll join you soon enough."

He snorts and walks away. Surreal eyes him from the top of the Inn's steps. 

"Enjoying the show?" he asks.

"Could be gorier."

Lucivar gives her a sharp grin. "Be careful what you ask for, little witch."

She ignores him. "The Inn serves decent ale."

"I remember."

"Then you'll remember that Rainier will like a mug of it too."

Fair warning, Lucivar decides, that the Inn harbors trouble as well.

Surreal makes no move to join him as he enters the Inn. Lucivar accepts her choice to remain with Daemon and leaves the outside work to his brother and cousin. He is certain there will be just as much entertainment for him inside. 

  
  


3 / Ciraea

He lays a hand against the wood of the kitchen door and concentrates. There is someone in the tavern who doesn't belong; yet he almost recognizes the person, someone he has met before. Jakob stretches his senses a little further, tastes the flavor of mixed psychic scents, sorts through those he knows by heart and...

His eyes snaps open.

Of course. The Opal-Jeweled Warlord Prince who serves Sadi.

The man is obviously on guard, under orders from the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

Jakob utters an almost inaudible sigh and slumps against the doorframe.

Nothing has happened as planned. He can't even distract the Master of the Guard and allow his family to escape. No, not with another—more terrible—force at work. But surely he should not leave Theia to Sadi's mercy?

And Sadi will kill Jakob without a second thought—perhaps playing with him like a cat does a mouse. Exactly as Sadi is playing with Nyx.

_Hell's fire._

What is he supposed to do now?

He has to lure Theia into the kitchen. If Jak can just speak with her, if only for a moment, they might be able to think of a way to survive.

The risk is great but he must try.

Jak very carefully aims a psychic thread at his long-time friend, whispers, * _Eyan_...* 

 

 

Theia is tired of waiting by now; and she is extremely tired of playing someone's captive.

The Mistress of the Inn sets down her mug with more force than necessary. Rainier, the Warlord Prince who quietly rests a hip against her bar, raises an eyebrow.

Lawl is wise enough to say nothing but Eyan opens his mouth to speak. Well, if the man is foolish enough to wonder _what could possibly be the matter_ , she won't be liable for her actions. 

Then Eyan starts, a strange look passing through his eyes, and lowers his head marginally.

The riled feeling in Theia subsides to something more quiet and concerned. But she isn't given the chance to figure out what might be bothering Eyan.

Another man walks into the tavern.

The winged Warlord Prince Yaslana. 

Oh, Mother Night.

She decides suddenly that it might be prudent to hold her tongue—especially when the Eyrien narrows his eyes and makes a fast assessment of the situation. Theia grips her mug tightly and waits.

Then Yaslana fixes his eyes on her and his mouth relaxes. "Lady."

She blinks.

"Prince... Yaslana, welcome. Won't you make yourself comfortable?"

Apparently that was along the proper vein because the Eyrien lets out a short bark of a laugh as he pulls out a bar stool.

Theia decides on a course of action. "Lawl, fix the Prince a drink."

Lawl, the man that Theia never has to worry about arguing with her, looks suddenly mutinous. She puts a bit of snap into her voice, "If you _please,_ Lord Lawl."

Apparently that tone works on Lawl as well as when her boys are being stubborn. The bartender slides behind the bar and grudgingly goes to work.

There is amusement saturating the air from both Rainier and Yaslana. Theia sighs.

It is Eyan who says in a quiet voice, "Perhaps your guests would appreciate some food too."

Despite the sharp look that Yaslana fixes on Eyan, and the sudden paleness of Eyan's face, Theia decides that that isn't a half bad idea. She stands.

"Would you care for something, Prince?" Her question is directed to both men.

Yaslana flicks a glance at the mug that Lawl uses Craft to set beside his hand, the Warlord still staying out of immediate range of the warrior. Lawl is now vigorously polishing a glass. 

Then the Eyrien shrugs and leaves the decision up to her.

Rainier follows her around the bar and she has to stop and stare at him. "I don't need a man hanging over my shoulder at the stove," she says tartly. Before he can reply, she adds more quietly, "And you have my word that I won't run."

He looks at her for a moment, then steps back and inclines his head. Theia notes with satisfaction that Yaslana does not issue an order otherwise.

She shakes her head once, in a kind of exasperation and relief, and pushes open the kitchen door with more force than necessary.

The muffled "Ow!" startles her.

Then a sight shield drops and Jakob is staring at Theia, aggrieved, and rubbing an injured elbow.

Clamping a hand around her mouth is the only way to prevent her from giving him away to the men in the tavern. It doesn't, however, stop her from pulling the boy into a tight hug.

She doesn't realize that she is shaking until Jak's arms tighten around her and he whispers, "It's okay, it's okay" like a mantra.

" _Jak_ ," is about all that she can manage.

He continues to rub her back in soothing circles until she feels her muscles responding, relaxing.

Finally, Theia eases back. Then it occurs to her exactly how much danger Jakob is in. "You stupid, stupid boy!"

Jakob has the decency to look contrite, to mumble, "I'm sorry."

"Jak, how could you even consider coming back? Mother Night, of all the fool-headed, thoughtless..."

Jakob releases her mid-beratement and says fiercely, "I had to, Theia. _I had to_. You shouldn't have to suffer because of me!"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you went rogue!" She instantly regrets those harsh words the moment they leave her mouth. "Oh, Jak..."

"No." He looks pained. "You're right. I was selfish and a fool twice over. I-I should have never—" 

She doesn't give him the chance to wallow in regret. "What's done is done. Now you have to find a way to fix it."

The young man turns his back and braces himself against the kitchen counter. "It's gone too far," he says quietly. "Theia.... I can't _see_ a way to fix it—any of it."

She lays a hand on his shoulder. "I know you, Jak. You have honor." At his bitter laugh, she squeezes. "No, listen." The next words are hard to say. "You can... run, Jakob, just as you were running when I first met you."

He is so very still. She keeps going.

"I don't know what caused that and I promised that I would never ask. I won't now. But—" Her voice trembles, because she knows what she is saying, "—I believe that you need to stay."

"I'll die."

She almost bites her bottom lip bloody to keep the rising anguish inside. When Theia has herself under control, she says, "Nothing is certain." 

Jakob nods once, then turns back to her. The resolution in his eyes breaks her heart. "I love you, Theia."

"I love you too." She touches his face. "You'll always be my boy."

He buries his face in her shoulder and it is like a dam breaks inside her. She tries to tell him over and over how sorry she is, how much she loves him. Eventually Jakob steps back, his eyes slightly red.

She feels helpless when he walks to the swinging door, never looking back, and exits the kitchen.

It is easy to sag against the nearest counter and weep.

  
  


4 / Ciraea

"I demand that you release me!"

"Do you?" Prince Sadi presses his right hand against the wall adjacent to the door and embeds a Red shield into the wood. Neither the Queen nor her Master of the Guard are strong enough to pass through it. He decides to reserve the power of his Black jewels for the finer points of the punishment he has planned—and to set Jaenelle's spell into motion.

Daemon passes through the door, only pausing in the hallway to listen to the sounds of Phaedra's rage. He then adds an aural shield to spare the rest of the Inn from listening to her. 

Surreal waits for him at the bottom of the staircase. Her mouth is curved with a sweet maliciousness. "Is the bitch settled?"

He returns her smile. "Yes, and quite unhappy about it."

Some of the tension in his back eases when she links her arm through his. 

"I'm sure the staff have had their fill of Lucivar by now," the witch reminds him.

He imagines so.

 

 

When Lady Theia exits the main dining area, Lucivar notices the other presence the moment the door leading into the kitchen swings on its hinges. He is a warrior, born and bred, and has honed his innate sense for locating a potential killing field. While a normal man may listen to the pull on his gut, Lucivar tastes the currents of the air. He does not know why that works for him but he has long since learned to trust his instincts.

So when he feels a sense of _there_ , the Ebon-gray Jeweled Warlord Prince usually follows without hesitation.

This time, however, Lucivar Yaslana stays at the bar, alert and waiting for a hint of female distress. When no warning comes, he draws a conclusion that curves the corners of his mouth. 

Another player is entering the game. 

Eyriens enjoy physical challenges more than most, and Lucivar is no exception.

He is not disappointed. After a few minutes, a grim-faced young man walks out of the kitchen and elicits an array of reactions from the occupants of the tavern.

The Prince seated at the table pales and whispers "Jak, you idiot." Behind the bar, the Warlord's busy hands still in the task of wiping down a freshly washed wineglass. Rainier, who has been engaged but relaxed, stiffens and drops his hands to his sides, loosening his muscles for a quick attack. That, at the very least, pleases Lucivar. The Warlord Prince remembers his training—not that Lucivar didn't take the extra care and opportunity to show Rainier why the technique was important to remember.

The newcomer ignores the other males and focuses on the most threatening person in the room.

Him.

Lucivar gives the Warlord Prince his lazy, arrogant smile. "So you're the troublemaker Daemon is after."

The man's throat works a moment before he speaks. "Yeah, that's me." 

Lucivar's eyes harden when the male subtly shifts his weight.

"Boyo," he warns, "I wouldn't try anything stupid—well, beyond what you've already done. You come at me, I will rip you apart."

"Wasn't planning on it," mutters the Warlord Prince. "I... want to turn myself in. No fighting."

The Eyrien leans back and considers that request. "I'm not the law in the Dhemlan." Despite that he is the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, the ground under his feet is not his territory and that means certain Protocol is required of Prince Yaslana.

Fortunately, Lucivar has never been one for following rules. He opts for taking an accurate measure of the rogue.

Using Craft to float a free stool next to the bar, he orders, "Sit down."

Prince Jakob eases onto the stool with caution, as though he expects Lucivar to change his mind about their non-violent introduction. Lucivar hides a smile behind his mug of ale. 

"A drink for the Prince," he directs to the bartender. 

While the Warlord has sense enough to do as he asks but that doesn't stop Jakob from staring at Lucivar like he has grown a second head. "What's your game?"

Lucivar calls in his warblade and sets it beside his half-full mug. "I'll ask questions and you'll answer. If you refuse to answer, I'll start breaking bones. If I don't _like_ your answer, I'll use the blade. Fair enough?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not this time."

"Then what do you want to know?"

Lucivar fixes his gold eyes on Jakob. "Why are you turning yourself in?"

Whatever question Jakob was expecting, the one Lucivar asked isn't it. The pup's mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"

The Eyrien has plenty of time. He takes a sip of ale and repeats the question. 

Jakob says, resignation in his eyes, "I have people to protect."

"Who?"

"My family."

Lucivar glances over to the quiet and frightened Prince. Then he looks pointedly at the door Jakob came through. "The lady?"

Jakob nods. "Among others. The Master of the Guard has my brother Whit."

"They collaborated to keep you hidden," he guesses.

"No!" insists the young man fiercely. "It was me. Just me. They were never involved."

"They _are_ involved now," Lucivar tells him softly, "because they are your family. There isn't a way around that."

"That doesn't mean they have to die!" 

Stupid men always have to learn the hard way. "That, too, isn't your call. Who will you name?"

"Name?" repeats the male dumbly.

"The other rogues. You realize that by handing over your life, you are offering up theirs too."

The Prince behind them makes a strangled noise.

Jakob's skin lightens to a faint grey. "I—I can't do that."

"Mm," says Lucivar. "Not much choice. I doubt my brother will bother to ask."

He lets the implication of his words ripen. When Jakob has the look of a man about to puke his guts, Lucivar uncaps a flask, empties a generous amount of its contents into Jakob's mug, and thrusts the mug into the man's trembling hands.

"Drink it."

The brew is gulped and some color comes back into Jakob's face. "I don't understand. Why are you telling me this? You aren't going to let me go."

"No," he agrees, "I won't. You made your choice when you executed the first theft. Everything has a price."

Jakob swallows. "You haven't asked why I went rogue."

"Chances are that it won't matter." Lucivar runs a finger around the edge of his warblade. "Every rogue has a reason. Some reasons are honorable; some aren't." He pulls in a sharp breath of memory. "I've seen both."

"Prince Yaslana understands the consequences of disobedience," a silky voice inserts smoothly into their conversation. Daemon is lounging against the entrance of the tavern, his eyes sleepy. Surreal guards the opposite side, a hand curled around her trademark stiletto.

Lucivar narrows his eyes in his brother's direction. "About time you joined us, Bastard."

Sadi smiles. "Prick. I am aware that we have our differences, but sharing a drink with the enemy? You might want to re-evaluate your strategy."

Lucivar snorts. "Too easy to kill him. Besides, I wouldn't want to step on your toes."

Daemon glides over to them. "Smart man."

"Sometimes." 

The Eyrien watches as his brother focuses on the other Warlord Prince. Daemon's "Jakob" has a familiar pitch that sends a chill running down his spine.

 

 

Like a man defeated, Jakob stands slowly, almost positive that he wants to close his eyes rather than see the death blow. The casual banter between Prince Sadi and Prince Yaslana does nothing to ease the roiling of his gut. 

"Prince," he forces past the tightness of his throat.

"I would say that I appreciate you saving me the effort of the hunt," Sadi says casually, "but I am rather disappointed. This won't be as... entertaining."

Oh, Jakob seriously doubts that. 

He works to keep his voice calm. "Sorry for the inconvenience." He pauses. "I have some conditions before I let you kill me."

Sadi raises an eyebrow and Prince Yaslana turns a look on him that clearly reads _you are dumber than I thought._ "I ran from the Queen's men for a reason. I won't kneel to Phaedra, not in service and in repentance. That stands." 

For the first time, Jakob looks over to Eyan. The man has a white-knuckled grip on the edge of his table. He speaks of his second condition as he meets Eyan's frightened gaze. "As the leader, I take full responsibility for the raids." He turns back to Sadi. "Make an example of me but let the rest of my men go."

The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince slips hands into his trouser pockets. His voice is bitterly cold. "You once accused me of indifference. Now you request it of me. You are a fool." 

Jak feels trapped by that sleepy, bored look, unable to look away. Mother Night, how did things spiral so far out of his control?

He decides that he has nothing left to lose by speaking until Sadi decides to take his tongue. "I meant my words," he admits softly. "When was the last time you visited this province? When was the last time Ciraea meant more to you than a name on paperwork?"

In the background, Eyan makes a small noise that might be the warning _shut up_. But Jakob can't stop talking now; there won't be another chance. "What did you expect us to think—to expect of you?" He knows how bitter his words sound. "Ciraea couldn't wait until it climbed to the top of your list. Phaedra was crushing us." He says simply, "You are welcome to strip me of my Jewels or my life, but do _not_ touch my family—or my men."

Sadi is silent as he takes one step back, pivots on the ball of his foot, and glides away with a feline grace. 

When Jakob realizes that Sadi is aiming for Eyan, he leaps forward but is dragged back by Prince Yaslana's bruising grip on his arm. "Leave him alone! He has nothing to do with this!"

That croon scares the shit out of Jakob. "He _is_ a rogue."

Eyan stays absolutely still in the face of a predator. When the Prince bows his head under Sadi's glittering stare, Jakob feels like he has taken a blow to his own gut.

"Your leader asks for your pardon," the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan says. "Tell me why I should consider it."

The answer is quiet. "I did what I thought was right. Just—" The pain in the man's voice is audible. "I've got a wife and children."

Sadi looks bored.

Eyan swallows hard. "Don't punish them for my mistakes. That's all I ask."

Sadi reaches out and strokes the curve of the Prince's jaw with a long black-tinted nail. Prince Eyan is told, "In three days' time, you will bring every rogue to the doorstep of this inn. I don't care how you do it."

Then Sadi calls his second-in-command and says, "Escort Prince Jakob to a guest room."

Finally, to Jakob, the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince warns, "I wouldn't piss off Lady Surreal. She has a certain... suspicion of Sapphire-Jeweled males."

He doesn't question how Sadi knows his Jewel of rank. Jakob's gaze flicks over to the witch. There is a Gray Jewel around her neck and a unnerving professional assessment of him in her green-gold eyes. Sadi's warning is generous, then.

 

When the stew starts to bubble in its pot, Theia eases back from the kitchen door. She has heard enough to know that little can be done for Jakob. After arranging the food, and subsequently distracting herself, she squares back her shoulders and thumps open the swinging door with her hip.

Everyone in the tavern stops what they are doing—or discussing—to watch the Mistress of the Inn set down a tray of steaming bowls onto the bar. Theia murmurs to Prince Yaslana, "Enjoy," and then calls out "Wait!" to Jakob. Lady SaDiablo is on his left, and by her stance, prepared to stop Theia from interfering.

She has no such intention. Ignoring the spectators, Theia pulls her boy into a last hug.

Jakob leans into it, remarkably uncaring of his pride as he might have been in any other situation. She finally leans back, mops at her wet face, and then smoothes down his hair as she used to do to comfort her son Whit when he was little and too scared to sleep through lightning storms.

"I'll be upstairs," Jak tells her quietly.

The smile stretching her lips isn't heartfelt. "Then I'll bring you some dinner once you're settled."

They part.

She watches, hands tucked against herself, as Jakob follows Lady SaDiablo from the room.

Theia turns to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan. "I want my boy Whit returned."

Surprisingly, he doesn't discard her request as the Master of the Guard had. "Prince Rainier will see to it."

Sadi's secretary executes a short bow and disappears on the heels of Jakob and Lady SaDiablo.

With a gesture at the bar, she tells the remaining males, "I made plenty of stew. The bread is still baking but it should be done shortly. Lawl, put down those mugs and have a bite to eat."

She says nothing to the contrary when Prince Sadi chooses to lounge at the bar with his brother. In some ways, he is simply not what she expected. Though Theia cannot explain precisely why that makes her feel better, she only knows that she would rather live with Daemon Sadi's judgment than Queen Phaedra's.

  
  


5 / Ciraea

Eyan resists the urge to glance over his shoulder, wondering if Sadi will change his mind and call the Prince back. It is that fear which prompts the man to run once he steps onto the boardwalk. Past the emptied and closed stores, across the deserted street, and as fast as possible to his home.

His wife reaches for him the moment he clears the doorway. Eyan holds her, kisses her feverishly. Then he hugs each of his stepchildren in turn.

"I'll be traveling for a few days," he tells his wife, "but I'll come back."

"Eyan?"

"Please, Jyl, don't fight me on this. Sadi knows."

He ushers her into a seat when she goes white with fear. "May the Darkness be merciful. _Oh Eyan,_ we can't lose you," she whispers, her eyes red with unshed tears.

 _It's too late for that,_ he knows.

Sadi has come to some decision about him, that much was evident in Sadi's tone, but Eyan won't know what that decision is until he completes his orders. There is little doubt that should Eyan fail to do as he is told, the leniency Sadi may grant him—grant his family—is forfeit.

Maybe... maybe this is a test of his honor. Eyan does not plan to fail.

 

 

"Comfortable?" a cold voice asks. Prince Sadi is standing in the doorway, face unreadable.

Phaedra hadn't heard his approach, hadn't felt him until he wanted to be known. She is grateful when Nyx places himself between her and the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

She says as coolly as she can manage, "The decor is common and the bedding is cheap." 

His laugh startles her. "I doubt this inn caters to Aristo bitches on a regular basis."

_How dare he!_

When Phaedra looks to Nyx to defend her honor, the Master of the Guard locks his jaw and remains silent.

Males are the same, every last one of them, tucking tails between their legs and rolling over for the dominant cock. This is why females carry the true power of the Blood in their veins. The female will not be cowed.

"When you address me, _Prince_ , you will speak with respect. _I am a Queen_."

"And yet the Queens of Dhemlan handed me their Territory to rule."

Her voice is ice. "I was out-voted on the matter, I assure you." 

His voice is colder, like the power of the Black. "Thank you, darling, for telling me that."

She lets the silence stretch until, when Sadi gives no sign of leaving, she is forced to ask, "What do you want?"

The bastard pretends ignorance of the real meaning of her question and answers, "My father taught me that it is common courtesy to inform a lady when danger has passed. I have the rogue leader."

At the remainder of who sired him, she pales. Then his words sink in. _Jakob. Mother Night, Jakob is here. Of his own will._ She can think of only one reason that Jakob would brave facing Sadi, of what information he might use to bargain for his life. If the boy talks... 

"Kill the bastard," Nyx breaks his silence. He is looking at Sadi.

"Are you giving me orders?" the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince asks too softly.

The Master of the Guard speaks no further.

"I wish to see this leader," Phaedra interrupts, chin high.

Nyx's face is hard when he turns to address her. "No," grates the man.

She dismisses his concern, never taking her eyes off of her goal.

Sadi smiles in a way that causes an unexpected heat in her groin. She locks her knees and says, "His crime was against my person. I have the right to face him."

"Fine," Prince Sadi agrees mildly. "Follow me."

When Nyx tries to block her path, she lays her hand on his chest and says, "Stay."

"Phaedra," the man whispers. "I'll go with you."

"I'm sorry, Nyx. You won't be useful."

She steps around him and waits for Sadi to offer his arm as escort. When he does not, simply turns and walks out the door, she has no choice but to trail behind him like a child. Phaedra spares a thought for nothing but the task ahead of her.

 

 

Once Daemon leads the bitch to Jakob's room, Phaedra tells him, "Your presence is not required inside, Prince Sadi."

He raises an eyebrow. "And if the rogue were to attack you?"

"That would please you, I'm sure," she snaps in response.

True. Daemon inclines his head. "Then the lady shall do as she pleases." He adds, "Don't bother running. I promise you that you won't make it very far." The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan inclines his head courteously and walks away.

When Daemon turns the corner of the hallway, he pauses, silently marking the sounds of the open and close of a door. Then he re-enters the now-empty hallway and backtracks.

  
  


6 / Ciraea

The Queen's guards don't offer a fight when Rainier shows up to collect Lady Theia's son. He imagines that word travels fast and no one wants to challenge a man in service to Daemon Sadi.

One of the guards points to a building near the main landing web. When Rainier walks inside, a young Warlord with a bruised face sits up from his sprawl on a long narrow bench. The other males in the room don't look at Rainier or each other. 

"Whit?" he inquiries of the wide-eyed young man.

"Yes, Sir."

"Your mother is worried about you."

The boy is on his feet in an instant. "Is she all right? Is Ali all right?"

Ali must be the name of the sharp-tongued barmaid Rainier remembers. Interesting.

"Lady Theia is well. Come with me."

Whit doesn't waste any time in following him. They are on the street when he asks, "We're going to the Inn?"

"Yes."

"Shit, I can't believe this!" Whit talks faster than he walks. "I can't believe Jak is one of the rogues. I keep wishing I'd wake up. Hell's fire, I almost wish my mother hadn't let him stay—"

Rainier stops and turns on his charge. "If you had known what your brother was doing, would you have turned him in?"

Whit shrugs. "I don't know."

"Then be thankful that you didn't have to make that choice, Warlord."

Silence is heavy between them until they reach the doors of the Rose & Thorn Inn.

 

 

Jakob paces the small room, unable to remain still. He is uneasy because he has no idea what Sadi plans to do with him. _Trapped_ , he thinks. Then, _Mother Night, Theia, I'm sorry I did this to us._

He is not expecting to see Sadi so soon after their last confrontation so Jak has his back to the door when it opens. Then he catches the psychic scent and rises to the killing edge in a single heartbeat. 

“Hello, Jakob,” a feminine voice calls to him. 

He says nothing, simply turns around and looks at the beautiful woman through a red haze. She is the same as he last remembers, the physical scent unchanged—a combination of an expensive perfume and a musk that uniquely identifies her. The haziness between memory and reunion almost pushes him over the edge but he clings to his last vestiges of control.

The pair stands in place, frozen by a long and terrible history. Finally, Jakob breaks his silence. 

“Mother.” It is a painful word to say.

“Oh, Jak.” Phaedra moves, then, hand reaching out for her son. “How I’ve missed you!”

He stares at that hand for too long before shuddering once and looking at her through clear eyes. Jak faces the woman he’d loved as a boy, whose love he had yearned for in return. 

“Don’t,” is bitten out between sharp breaths. “I know what you did.”

“No, Jak, no. I’d never—“

“Liar!” he snarls. The room fills with an onslaught of emotions. “How—how could you—“ His laugh is abbreviated and harsh. “You never loved me, did you?”

Jak barely resists the urge to shatter the nearest object against the wall. That hard, unyielding something builds and builds inside him now; her smooth expression, the same look that used to tear his heart to shreds—all of it drives the betrayal, heartbreak and insane bitter rage to the surface until it spills over in his words and the jerky, barely controlled flexing of his fists.

“You’re mistaken" is the flat assurance. Her voice has lost the dramatics, the caring and warmth which Phaedra can beckon at a moment’s notice. Jak knows; he recalls all too well the petty games she would create to manipulate his father or other males. Those many years ago, he had been too young to recognize the miserable, sick atmosphere of her Court.

“It was Reed who pried my fingers loose when he could have saved me,” Jak states flatly. “There is only one person that man would have committed murder for—and that’s _you_.” 

When he had realized that he had survived, exhausted and lying half-drowned on the riverbank, the first thing the terrified and white-faced boy had done was steep himself in denial. For days he had waited in that one spot along the riverbank, thinking someone would search for him, that he’d lived through a horrible accident. When no one came and the crows grew disappointed that he wouldn’t die, Jak had dragged himself up the bank and stumbled through countryside as long as he could, too empty of tears to cry. By the time he’d reached the first sign of civilization, an emotional numbness had swathed him, left him cold. Logic won over the denial, drove Jakob to keep his silence in the face of worried strangers. After that, the boy had done what he could, lied and stolen from decent people, always moving on and never looking back. His naivety and his faith in others were gone.

Years later, at the brink of something too dark for words, Jak found himself in a little place called Havenstry and was directed for work to the Rose & Thorn Inn by a woman with sharp eyes and the psychic scent of a Black Widow. He had intended only to stay long enough to replenish his meager stash of traveling coins. It was when the Mistress of the Inn, with a gentleness and pity in her eyes, said not a word after she had caught him pocketing money from the evening till, that the wall around his heart cracked under his shame. Theia had made no fuss, simply led him into the inn’s kitchen. She packed a basket of food and offered it to the young man with the words, “Take this with you if you go, but you may stay. I’d much rather that you stayed.”

Jakob pulls himself away from the flash of memory. Phaedra's eyes are slits; she is watching him with care, probably judging the depth of the threat that he poses. He is a mature Warlord Prince now, his strength darker than hers.

She is still an enemy he cannot afford to underestimate. 

“I know why you are here. You won't stop me.”

"Jak, can you not forgive me? I did what was necessary... as a Queen. What would have become of me if my purpose in life had been taken away?"

His lips part at the sheer ludicrousness of her words. "A mother doesn't kill her _son_."

"A Queen does not abandon her people," counters the dark-haired woman.

The bitterness is terrible, swells to consume his very reason. "You've got that backwards, Lady. The people are abandoning you."

Something dark—like rage—flickers through her eyes before it is blanketed. "I cannot make you understand a Queen's sacrifice." She calls in a bag and floats it to a side table. “In that purse is two hundred thousand gold marks. You will receive another two hundred thousand once you cross the border of Dhemlan.”

“A bribe for my silence?”

“For your suffering,” she answers smoothly. “Jakob, you must go before Daemon Sadi returns. This is your only chance to escape, to _live_. Go before he destroys you!"

The Warlord Prince is blunt. “Are you afraid of what I might say?”

She stiffens. “Of course not. You must know that the word of an unleashed male won't stand against that of a Queen's. You would only look the fool if you made an accusation against me.”

He is not convinced. She is afraid. 

Jakob stares at the half-open pouch, revealing a large sum of gold marks. His mouth stretches in a faint smile. “You owe me a debt,” Phaedra's son tells her softly, “that cannot be repaid with money.”

“I owe you nothing,” is her cold reply. “You were born into this world from my body and belong to me. I am your Queen as well as your mother.”

“My Queen?” The words are full of disgust. “You were never my Queen. You’re just a selfish, conniving bitch that I had the ill misfortune of having as a mother.” Jakob takes one sure step forward. “I’ve had my eyes opened, Phaedra, in the worst possible way. I see the ugliness of your soul and the rot in your heart.” He lowers his voice to an ominous pitch. “Ciraea is learning to look deep. You won’t be able to hide behind a beautiful face forever.”

“My face is yours.”

He snarls. “No.”

The Queen’s smile is unpleasant. “Don’t you see what you are doing with your pitiful band of rogues? You, my darling, are as manipulative as I. You use weaker males like puppets. We are the same.”

“I don’t decide for other people. You can’t stand the thought that our hatred of you brings Ciraea together.”

His mother meets his forward step with one of her own. The line has been drawn and they stand separated by it. He knows for a fact how he will react once it is crossed. 

"I have no more time to wait for your forgiveness, child," the woman tells him. "And, as Queen of Ciraea, I cannot allow you to go unpunished for your crimes against the people."

He laughs. "My only crime is against you, _Mother_. I return to Ciraea what you took from her."

"You are a fool like your father—and Fallon. I am Queen. My will is just; my will is _law_." She smiles but the glint in her eyes does not match the curve of her lips. "You are a mistake I intend to correct." 

Jakob recognizes the significance of Phaedra's movement, when her hand clenches around a weapon out of thin air. There is no betrayal in her actions now, only confirmation that she is as desperate and twisted as he believed her to be. Jakob stands still even as she cries out and flings herself forward, the dagger in her hand coated in Jeweled power.

 _You can't hurt me anymore, Mother,_ he realizes with an inexplicable wild joy. _I'm strong enough now._

She never has the chance to batter against his Sapphire shield and fail. Her uplifted arm jerks back in mid-plunge, surprising them both. Phaedra gasps and wrenches away, wide-eyed. Jakob reacts on instinct, ready to kill her before she turns to run. He calls in his Sapphire ring on his right hand, the Jewel flashing as he releases a burst of undiluted power. 

That power strikes a black, rippling barrier and dissipates as if absorbed. 

His mind only needs a moment to process the interference. He lifts a horrified gaze past the shaking woman, straight to the other side of the room.

A smooth, deep voice touches his mind. *Kill the bitch now and her death satisfies only your pain, no one else's.* 

Daemon Sadi reveals himself from an unnatural shadow that fades away. Both Warlord Princes ignore the clatter of the Queen's dagger to the floor, the way she launches herself away from them, and claws at the shield over the door that is too dark to bend to her will.

Jakob shudders with the need to lash out. *She _owes_ me.*

*Yes, I know,* is the soft reply. *But Phaedra also owes Ciraea and that debt takes precedence.*

He shakes his head in denial. *She won't suffer enough!*

Sadi approaches him, stops within an arm's length. "I guarantee that she will." He smiles.

"How?" Is that his hoarse voice? "How will she die?"

"The spell is already in place."

A spell cannot possibly make Phaedra pay the price for her crimes against her people. _Against him._ Only blood for blood...

Jakob is stunned by the strange look in Sadi's eyes. The coldly beautiful man is saying, "My wife created the spell."

He sucks in a breath. Sadi's wife.

"Witch," he whispers, remembering a time when the most powerful Queen in Kaeleer ruled Ebon Askavi and held dominion over the Realm. The forces of Kaeleer bowed to her, served her with unshakable loyalty.

Without knowing why, Jakob feels lighter. He cannot _not_ bow to Jaenelle Angelline's judgment; she is epitome of the double-edged sword that Queens are born to wield—mercy and justice. 

He looks at his mother then. Phaedra is sprawled against the bottom of the door, a mimic of a lovely broken doll. Stepping back from the killing edge is easier than he expects.

Daemon Sadi pivots away from Jakob. "Ciraea's last memory of your mother won't be kind."

At the flick of Sadi's fingers, the door to the room springs open. "Clean yourself up," the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan tells the silent, sickly pale witch as he glides past.

 

 

Lucivar leans against the railing along the upper room, arms crossed. His brother stops within a foot of him and asks, "Something you need, Prick?"

"I could ask you the same." 

The air chills and that is never a good sign simply because it means his brother's temper is honed.

Lucivar has seen the repercussions of that temper. He is prepared to meet it if necessary.

Daemon stares at him for too long before silently walking past him and down the stairs. The Eyrien takes that as his cue to follow. When they end up in the street outside of the Inn, matched stride for stride, Lucivar feels his own temper rise in response to the cold silence that envelops his brother.

They come to a standstill at the end of the boardwalk facing the river's edge.

Lucivar calls Daemon's attention back to him. "Bastard."

It isn't quite the Sadist who meets his gold eyes, but the rage there is too close for comfort. "Did Father tell you about Phaedra's past?"

He shakes his head. "What do I need to know?"

Daemon tells him about the Queen's reputation, the death of her only child and execution of her first Master of the Guard. Lucivar thinks _there's more_ —something else that sets his brother on edge. Daemon is never bothered by games of intrigue or murder. His brother was molded in the heart of Dorothea's taint while Lucivar grew up in the Eyrien hunting camps. 

So he says, "Tell me."

Standing next to him, Daemon's words are soft-spoken. "Phaedra arranged the kill but the child survived."

Lucivar's temper flares. "Daemon," he says ominously, "spit it out."

Daemon's eyes are like chips of ice. "Jakob is Phaedra's son."

Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

 _No wonder the rogue wants the bitch to pay,_ Lucivar realizes. He has to know, "Will Jaenelle's web suffice to call in the debt?"

The Sadist croons, "It will—once I tire of the bitch."

Lucivar likes that answer.


	9. Chapter Six

  
_Kaeleer_

**1 / Ciraea**  


Eyan and several men step from Havenstry's main landing web. The group is greeted by furtive glances of the townspeople and quiet whispers.

Yes, Havenstry has been expecting these rogues for three days. Rumor has it that the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan has called them to stand trial for their crimes. Whether Sadi plans to execute them in the street or do it privately is a matter of strong debate.

If one or two faces in that band of rogues is recognizable by the people they pass—whether they be acquaintances, friends or lovers—eyes are kept averted and mouths closed. 

Eyan stares straight ahead as he leads the others through town. 

Sadi's secretary is leaning comfortably against the outside wall of the Rose & Thorn Inn when they arrive. He asks Eyan, "Is this all of them?"

"Yes." Eyan pauses, thinking of Charon. "All that are living."

Rainier nods. "Come into the tavern."

Eyan doesn't know what he is expecting, perhaps to find Sadi waiting in the hallway to destroy every last man in a single burst of Black power, but what he finds is a brightly lit inn and a tavern of people sharing food and drink. No one seems overly anxious at the sight of declared rogues crowded in the doorway.

Of course, when Sadi and his brother Yaslana—the two most powerful males in Kaeleer—aren't concerned enough to abandon their chess game, then the rest of the Blood can rest assured they have nothing to fear from the newcomers.

Eyan has never been happier to see Theia hurrying toward him than in that moment. She ushers them around a table. "Sit. Ali! We need seven dark brews at the back table."

Theia tucks a rag into her dress pocket, nods to their group as a whole, and heads back towards the bar.

Most of the men keep their heads down, unwilling to attract unwanted attention despite that the whole town is acutely aware of their presence. Traye, the youngest of them, leans back in his chair and stares at the back of Yaslana's head.

Eyan pins him with a look. *Quit that.*

*I've never seen an Eyrien before. Their wings are huge.*

*And their weapons are always sharp, you idiot. We're in enough trouble as it is.*

Traye becomes distracted by the mug of ale that the barmaid places in front of him. 

"Lady Ali," greets Eyan.

She looks tired but it is the lack of fear in her eyes that arrests him. The Prince wonders what has changed here since he left.

Ali slides a mug within his reach. 

He has to ask, even knowing that he might not like answer. "Jak?"

The witch replies, "He's in the kitchen."

The kitchen?

Perhaps the question is apparent on his face. Ali pats his shoulder. "I'll bring you a basket of his rolls."

Eyan isn't the only open-mouthed male at the table.

Traye's eyes widen. "Jak is... _baking?_ "

"Prince Sadi likes his buttered rolls. And, well, who's going to say no to Sadi?"

 _Things have definitely changed,_ decides the Prince. For the first time in three, grueling days of convincing these men to face the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, he feels relief.

"Is it all right if I head into the kitchen to talk to him?" Eyan glances over at Sadi, who is enjoying a glass of wine and eyeing his brother as the Eyrien smirks and lazily moves a chess piece.

"Sure," Ali says.

He walks with her to the bar. She smiles encouragingly, telling him, "Don't stand around taking up space."

Eyan sighs and pushes past the kitchen door.

A young girl stops mid-chop, knife in hand, and blinks at him. He nods to her and mouths "Jakob?" over the clashing sounds of a busy kitchen. The witch gestures behind her with the knife and he is careful to edge around the large table at a discrete distance. 

He finds Jakob hauling a tray out of an oven. The scent of bread is heavy. Eyan's stomach decides then that food is a wonderful idea and insists as much with a loud grumble.

The Warlord Prince stills, glances over his shoulder, sees Eyan and almost drops the tray. Eyan leaps forward instinctively to prevent the slide of the rolls and yelps the moment his hands touch the hot metal. Jak intervenes by using Craft to freeze the rolls in their dive to the floor and shoots Eyan a look that clearly means _that was dumb of you_. Eyan is too busy nursing his burned fingertips with his mouth to care.

The tray is summarily discarded onto a counter-top and the Prince tugged over to a sink.

"Here," Jak says as Eyan's hand is thrust under cold water. "Keep it there until I come back."

"I can survive a little pain," mumbles the Prince but he doesn't argue after Jak levels a long-suffering stare at him.

"I'll be right back," insists the young man.

Eyan grimaces, shifts on his feet, and wishes his friend would hurry up.

Jakob returns with Theia in tow.

 _Wonderful_ , thinks the man.

Theia calls in a small box, muttering about brainless males as she does so and sorts through it. Finally, the woman opens a jar and scoops out a dollop of salve. It smells horrible.

"Dry your hands," the witch orders.

"Look, I'll be fine. It's just a little—"

"Do it."

He hastily accepts the towel Jak offers him, trying not to wince. Theia takes his right hand, examining the red skin. He tries not to fidget as his fingers are coated. When she pulls out a long coil of bandages, he jerks his hand back.

Theia is having none of that. "Hold still. Of all the foolish things to do—I'd expect _you_ to have some sense, Eyan. Mother Night, shield your hands when in a kitchen!"

"My wife normally chases me out of ours."

"Smart woman."

Eyan grimaces at his bandaged hand. He'll take it off later—when no females are around to snarl about him doing so and the man is forced to continue wearing it. Next to him, Jakob chuckles lowly. They watch the Mistress of the Inn pack up her kit. When she has left the kitchen, Eyan turns to the Warlord Prince and says, "Hell's fire, can we talk somewhere _else_?"

"Sure," replies Jak. "Let me put this last batch in the oven..."

Eyan watches, bemused and cradling his hand, as Jakob works like a man who knows what to do with a lump of cold dough. 

He's seen stranger things in his life, he supposes.

They walk through the back entrance of the kitchen and into the alleyway behind the inn. Jakob folds his arms and leans against a wall, slowly inspecting Eyan from head to foot.

"Done?" asks the Prince mildly.

"You came back."

"I gave my word," he says with a flash of temper. 

Jakob's face is serious. "Thank you."

Eyan sighs, muttering a curse under his breath. "What's going on in there, Jak?"

"Why aren't I hanging from the ceiling by chains to be flogged?" The young man laughs shortly. "Don't ask me. Sadi is a hard man to read. I'm not dead yet—and for that, I guess, I can be grateful."

"So what happens next?"

"We talk," a deep voice interrupts. Daemon Sadi steps into the alley with barely a sound of shoes scraping against stone. The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince narrows his eyes at Eyan. "Your hand?"

He struggles not to blush but feels his face overheat anyway. "Kitchen accident."

"He forgot to shield while saving a pan of hot rolls," interjects Jak dryly. 

Eyan shoots him a glare.

"Ah," Sadi says, smiling. "Pity if the rolls were wasted." His smile stretches into something eerily similar to a satisfied cat who just dined on a crunchy snack of mouse. Then the smile fades from Sadi's face and he tells Eyan softly, "Lady Theia has rooms prepared for the men. Enjoy a night's rest and breakfast."

Eyan nods, swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat.

Prince Sadi pivots, almost blended with the dark shadows, and glides back into the Rose & Thorn Inn. After a moment, Jakob and Eyan follow.

 

 

"We will journey to Mist Falls in the morning," says Lucivar's brother as they stroll down the boardwalk. The evening is late, the town quiet. Daemon stops and turns to the Eyrien. "Go home, Prick."

Lucivar rustles his wings. "Why?"

Daemon pinches the bridge of his nose and Lucivar stares, recognizing their father's gesture. "Because you have a wife and child?" Daemon adds with exasperation.

"Father would have sent a note if the little beast needed handling."

"I'm sure he would." His brother's tone is dry. "Nevertheless, Lucivar, it is time you left Ciraea."

Lucivar is silent for a moment, measuring the man before him. He turns away, asking, "How's your control?"

It is a legitimate question, but the air around them chills. "Prick..." his brother warns.

"I know this strikes a chord with you, Bastard," he continues stubbornly. "Hell's fire, it scrapes at _me_." And that is all he will admit to how much Jakob's situation reminds him too closely of his mother Luthivan and her hatred of his Eyrien nature—how she had given him away too young.

A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder. When Lucivar glances at Daemon, he meets gold eyes which are concerned and not cold. It is a stark reminder of how strong their bond is, even through centuries of fighting with and against each other. He loves his brother, and he knows that his brother loves him.

"I'm fine," he states bluntly. "Are you?"

There is a hint of weariness in Daemon's smile. "When this is over and I can hold Jaenelle, then yes, I will be."

They step apart. Lucivar nods and squeezes his brother's arm. "I'll go back to Ebon Rih tomorrow." Then he grins sharply. "I wonder how Cat's been entertaining herself these past weeks."

Daemon groans. "I would rather never know."

"And if Father has been in the middle of it...?"

Daemon's eyes glint with amusement. "Then you'll remember to share _those_ stories."

"Of course. How else are we supposed to feel good about ourselves, if not at Saetan's expense?"

They laugh.

 

 

Whit kisses his mother. Theia pats his cheek when he pulls back. She watches as her son slings an arm around Ali's shoulders, and they walk out of the inn. Moira has offered her spare bedroom to the couple. Yet Theia had to firmly push Whit and Ali out the door that first night. "The less people I have to worry about, the better," she had said when they protested.

She turns her head to look at Jakob helping Lawl clean up the tavern. He sees her, says something quiet to the bartender.

"Theia?" asks the young man as he approaches her, placing his rag in his pocket.

"Sit down with me a minute, Jak."

They pick a corner table for privacy. She folds her arms and smiles at him. Jak doesn't smile back, clear concern written in his eyes.

She sighs. "I need you to tell me about Phaedra, Jakob."

The man's mouth pinches and he pales, leaning back as if to put distance between them. She reaches across the table and lays a hand on his arm, to remind him that he doesn't need to run away. "Please."

Looking elsewhere, he asks, "How much did Sadi tell you?"

She sucks in a breath. "No one has said a word to me, especially not Prince Sadi, but it's obvious that something has changed between you two—and I would bet that the Queen is in the thick of it. Jak, there's almost—" _pity in Sadi's eyes_ , she thinks but holds back the words.

Jakob frowns at her.

"I'm sorry. Forgive an old woman for being tired. What I mean is that he seems to trust you enough to let you walk freely through the inn—and that surprises me."

"Sadi and I... have an understanding." An unpleasant smile twists his lips. "He treats me less like a criminal and more like an errant youth under house arrest; in return, I don't pull any stupid stunts." Jak adds after a pause, "And I bake. Incessantly. That's your fault, you know."

She snorts. "I was merely trying to tell the Prince that you had _merits_ as well as faults."

"Next time, talk about my excellent math skills and not _that_ , okay?"

She makes no promises. "You're attempting to lead me off the trail, Prince. I want an answer."

"Theia, please don't ask me..."

"After all these years, do you still not trust me, Jakob?" Theia tries to fight back sadness. Perhaps he sees an inkling of that in her face.

"I always trust you, Theia. You're my _family_."

"Then why won't you talk to me? I promise you—" She slides her hand into his, threads their fingers together. "—I won't think any differently of you. _I know you._ "

"That's just it," he tells her, "you don't. You don't _know_ who I really am."

She waits, afraid that anything she might say will strike down his courage. Instead, the witch opens her inner barriers just enough to send out a tendril of thought to his mind. When he responds, his first inner barrier opening for her, she lets her love and support for him seep in. His eyes are bright with un-shed tears.

A whisper comes back to her, so full of pain, that the taste of it hurts her. *My mother never loved me like this.*

*Then she was a fool,* answers Theia.

Jak's head drops to his chest. *She tried to be rid of me. Permanently.*

Theia goes very still, the implied meaning of his confession making her feel physically ill—and angry. So very angry at this unknown woman.

*Bitch,* she thinks with force.

Jak pulls back, startled.

She gives the word weight. "The woman's a bitch. I would be the first to admit that being a mother has its trials, but to... I can't comprehend it. A child is to be cherished, Jakob. Cherished, protected, and loved."

"Not all women are like you," he says softly with closed eyes. "Not all people are good."

"I know," she answers heavily, her anger turning to resignation. "But whatever you may think of your circumstances, Jakob, do not feel responsible for your mother's actions. That responsibility belongs solely to her."

He nods, silent.

Theia thinks long and hard on this man before her, from the first moment he appeared at the kitchen door asking for work. Back then, bitterness had clung to his scent—tainted it; that taint has eased over the years as he came to trust her. She has tried more than once to reach Jakob and let him know that the past is only a burden he _chooses_ to carry. Now she understands part of what shaped his bitterness.

How does that lead to Phaedra?

She voices that question and watches as he slowly lifts his gaze to meet hers, eyes vulnerable and full of history. She sees the answer there, at first not comprehending.

Then he states rather flatly, "I am Phaedra's son."

The truth is an unexpected blow that knocks the breath from her lungs. Thea is motionless for a time, unable to respond. When she does, finally, her "Jakob" is a mixture of horror and denial.

He pushes away from the table, then, shaking his head and backing up as if she has rejected him, told him to leave. "I'm sorry, Theia, I'm sorry..."

"Jak," she cries after him as he sweeps past a startled and confused Lawl, into the kitchen, and probably out into the night. It is not until much later, as she tries desperately to fall asleep and cannot, knowing he is alone and hurting, that Theia realizes she never spoke his name aloud at all.

 

 

The Queen knows that Nyx watches her, afraid that she will harm herself. What a fool he is, to even contemplate the idea that Phaedra would allow Sadi to break her so easily. 

The woman takes care to play her part, even as she burns with rage. When Nyx offers her sex for comfort, she turns him down and curls up on the bed. The sheer inactivity at being confined in this room drives her crazy, and while in a normal situation she would love to have a male under her so she can ride him, if Nyx thinks that she is recovering, he won't be so pliable.

She talks of "her end" and how "useless she has become." He chafes her hands, silent and grim-faced, brings her water and tucks blankets around her. On the evening when Nyx tells her that he senses more males in the building, she knows that time has almost run out.

She slips into the bathroom on the pretense of needing to wash her hair. The naked relief in Nyx's face at her display of liveliness grates on her nerves, but she manages to smile at him. When the Master of the Guard insists that the door stay open, Phaedra shakes her head gently, sadly, and locks herself into the bathroom.

 _Something sharp_ , she thinks. The bathroom is bare of objects to harm oneself, courtesy of Nyx, unless she wants to drown in the bathtub. Too messy and not nearly dramatic enough, the woman decides.

The mirror will have to do. Careful to shield her hand, both with the power of the Opal and cloth, she drives a fist into her reflection. At the sound of glass shattering and falling, Nyx shouts her name. By the time he wrenches the door off of its hinges, she is artfully posed with a face of despair and jagged glass held over one wrist, a small cut in the skin already bleeding.

They fight for the shard, the witch wailing, "Let me go! I want to die!" and Nyx's fear drenching her senses. He overpowers her, of course, and Phae collapses into his arms and sobs. The way the man gathers her close, almost shaking himself, and rocks her makes Phaedra sick at his weakness. He is whispering into her neck, "No, Phae, don't leave me. I'll fix it—fix all of it."

She sniffles and leans back, wiping at the tear trails along her cheeks. "How?" she asks softly. "With... my _son_ here, everything is ruined."

He kisses her temple, the corner of her eye, and breathes deeply against her hair. Phaedra appreciates a man as equally hard as she, which is why she had chosen the young Warlord Prince Nyx to take to bed. Soon after that, she had whispered words of her doubts about her Master of the Guard Fallon until Nyx turned against his leader. She saw potential in the Warlord Prince and cultivated it. But this... _romanticism_ of Nyx's is not what she wants, yet has to put up with time and time again. At least it has its usefulness too.

"I'll take care of it," says the male cradling her.

She bites her lip. "If Jakob lives, then I won't."

The Warlord Prince's nostrils flare as he studies her face. "I'll take care of everything," he promises her.

She lays her head on his shoulder, content.

  
  


**2 / Ciraea**

Some of the men are too nervous to eat breakfast, Eyan notices. Some are hip-deep in whiskey and others, such as Traye, are eating their share of the food and more. "If this is my last meal, I plan to enjoy it," Lord Traye had announced as he bit into a sausage.

Eyan drinks his bitter coffee and waits.

The tavern is not usually open in the morning because it caters to afternoon and evening crowds. However, with this many guests filling up the Rose & Thorn Inn—special guests at that—Theia has altered the work shifts to accommodate a full-day schedule.

The Prince spies Jakob coming out of the kitchen, calls "Jak!" and motions him over to their table. He takes a long, sharp look at his friend and asks, as Jak pulls out a seat and joins them, "Rough night?"

"Couldn't sleep," says the young man.

 _Which of them did, knowing what today will bring?_ Seeing Jakob's red-rimmed eyes and still in yesterday's clothes, he realizes that something _more_ is bothering the Warlord Prince than facing Sadi.

He is about to ask when Prince Rainier steps into the tavern, pinpoints them, and inclines his head.

So. It is time.

Eyan sets down his mug of coffee with a final sip and, ignoring the clench of his stomach, rises. "Let's go," he tells everyone.

Chairs clatter and scrape as they abandon the table and crowd around him. The Warlord Prince is still seated.

"Jak," Eyan says softly.

Jakob sighs and pushes himself up from the table. He steps to the forefront, Eyan now flanking him, and they leave the tavern on the heels of Prince Rainier. Eyan is less than surprised when they walk out of the inn and into the street. What he doesn't expect is to find Sadi leaning against a Coach the size of a small cabin. 

Prince Sadi raises an eyebrow at their gaping faces, opens the door with Craft and says succinctly, "Get in."

They do, not needing to be ordered twice by the most powerful male in Kaeleer. Eyan falls to the back of the group, watching as Sadi pulls Jakob to the side and speaks to him in a low tone. They aren't arguing but...

 _Bang_. A fist thumps the side of the Coach near his face. Eyan startles and whips his head in the opposite direction to see Yaslana smiling at him arrogantly. "Don't worry about your boy," the Ebon-gray-Jeweled Warlord Prince tells him.

Eyan is, at the very least, wise enough not to challenge an Eyrien warrior. He steps into the Coach and chooses a seat as close to the door as possible. Just in case.

 

 

"Sit upwind if my smell offends you," snaps the Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince irritably. 

The puppy has balls, Daemon will grant him that. But Jakob would be much smarter if he didn't go about displaying them to males who significantly outrank him.

He chuckles lowly. "My point, boyo, wasn't to insult your lack of bathing skills. You left the inn last night. Why?" He adds more softly as Jakob opens his mouth to retort, "Don't start a pissing contest that you can't win."

Jakob crosses his arms. "I had a personal matter on my mind. I needed to be alone."

"I see." He looks at the other male knowingly. "It would be wise if you said your goodbyes to Lady Theia now."

At the slump of the boy's shoulders, Daemon's suspicions are confirmed. He does not say another word, simply turns Jakob in the direction of the Inn with a firm hand. Jakob sighs and retreats back up the steps of the Rose & Thorn Inn.

Lucivar walks over and stands next to him. "Will he be coming back to Havenstry?"

"I haven't decided yet," replies the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

 

 

Jak finds Theia in her office, a hand resting on an open bottle of strong liquor. That worries him. She rarely drinks. 

"Theia?" he calls softly, knocking on the open door. 

The witch glances up at him, gasps, and hurries around the desk. He doesn't pull back when she hugs him.

Mother Night, he's such an idiot. 

"Jak," Theia says against his hair. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't, Theia. I promise." He tries to smile at her, asking boyishly, "Do you still love me?"

She laughs through her tears. "Of course I love you." Then Theia—the woman he would choose to be his mother, if he could—takes his face between her hands. She tells him earnestly, "I meant what I said, that nothing would make me see you differently. I don't care about your mother, Jakob. I care about _you_ —good, bad, and all."

Why is he shaking? It isn't cold in her office. 

Theia strokes his hair.

Finally, he steps away. "I have to go now" is a whisper.

"I know you do. Promise me..." The words trail off.

"Whatever you want, Theia." Jakob will always try his best for her.

"Then promise me that you will come back, if you can." She doesn't ask the impossible, knowing that the decision is out of his hands. 

"If I can, I will," he says.

They don't say goodbye, each hoping that by not doing so there is a chance they can be a family again.

When he is in the hallway, alone, he hesitates to contemplate a trip to the bathroom to change clothes and wash the tears from his face. Footsteps and voices interrupt his decision. He glances at the main staircase on his right and sees his mother and Prince Nyx descending, escorted by Lady SaDiablo and Prince Rainier. Because he wasn't expecting to meet them again like this, without Sadi present, Jakob freezes.

The Master of the Guard spots him and time seems to slow, heartbeat to heartbeat. Jakob cannot look away from the male, too close, and causing a prickling along the back of his neck. He is uncertain of what he is waiting for, only knows that something is about to happen.

Nyx settles a foot onto the ground floor, now level with Jakob, and Jak realizes belatedly that the Warlord Prince's eyes are glazed. 

It happens too fast.

One moment Nyx is standing at the foot of the stairs, some emotion about the man strong and cloying, then without warning the Master of the Guard launches forward, shoving past Lady SaDiablo and straight at Jakob. Jakob's hearing will later echo with a terrible snarl of rage. 

He snaps up a Sapphire shield in defense and rises to the killing edge so smoothly, it feels as though he known no other existence except the sweet call of battle. Nyx slams into him and the _punch_ of it knocks Jakob backwards into the wall. That punch almost shatters his shield. 

They are at each other's throats, and for the first time Jakob spies a Jewel burning fiercely with power against the skin of Nyx's neck.

_Sapphire._

Jak re-doubles his efforts. Then there is no time for emotion as another blow of Sapphire throws him against the stairs, his ribs bruising at the impact. He feeds more power into his shield and lets instinct drive his counterattack. 

Someone is shouting—no, _people_ shout, many of them—but neither Warlord Prince pays heed. They lock in battle, the strength of misdirected power cracking walls and turning wood to dust. The battlefield matters not, only who will be victor and will dance gloriously in the blood of the dead.

Blow after blow is exchanged, bones in hands snapping and pain simultaneously pushed aside. A bolt of Gray stuns them both, and Jakob uses that moment to dive into the abyss for his full strength.

_Kill him kill him kill him—_

It is the only mantra in his head. He smells blood and wants more, to see it spray across the floors. Nyx snarls, recovering, and rolls to his knees. A knife appears in Nyx's hand and comes in low, dripping with Jeweled power. Both the blade and Jakob's shield breaks.

 _Now!_ the Warlord Prince howls inside Jak, but his ascent is too slow and Nyx has Jakob on his back with a crushing hand wrapped around the young man's throat. The other Warlord Prince leans over his face, eyes not only glazed but steeped in something close to madness. Jakob fights the hold, forcing Sapphire power into his arms to enhance his strength even as the world grows grey around the edges.

He's not going to die, _he's not going to die..._

Suddenly Nyx's grip slackens and Jak gasps a breath of air, the sound of buzzing still in his ears. The Master of the Guard makes a choked noise, blood blossoming at the corners of his mouth. His head falls forward, eyes staring wide. Jak looks at the tip of a blade protruding through Nyx's chest. Its wickedly curved edge is painted a gleaming red.

Nyx shudders once, slumps, and the light in his eyes dies.

The body is unceremoniously shoved off of the blade and to the side. Jak continues to pull in ragged breaths, his throat on fire. Above him is the silhouette of an Eyrien warrior, warblade in hand. Then Yaslana looks at him. Jakob freezes, thinks, _I'm dead,_ because this man, _this Warlord Prince_ , has ruthless gold eyes and a face made of stone—was born for the killing field in a way that few men are. 

Lucivar Yaslana says, not taking his eyes off of Jakob, "Everyone out. _Now._ "

Jak is faintly aware of a woman protesting, of the sounds of people leaving or being dragged away. There is only silence, the stench of blood, and Yaslana.

"You have potential," the warrior tells him. "If you live, you need to be trained."

Unable to comprehend Yaslana's words, not with pain returning to him full-force, Jakob closes his eyes. Shit, _he hurts._

Passing out seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  
  


**3 / Ciraea**

Jakob puts a hand to his head and says, "Mother Night." He sits up, decides that was the last thing he should have done, and slowly edges back into a prone position.

"You're lucky. Prince Nyx was strong enough to kill you." 

He remembers the strength of the hands around his throat.

"Where are we?" he asks, turning his head to look at Sadi. The older man is relaxed on a cushioned bench extending from a wall. Jakob frowns, taking in his surroundings. Small, sparsely decorated...

"We are en route to Mist Falls," Sadi tells him.

Ah well. There is no need for him to move then. Jakob closes his eyes. "I've never been in a Coach like this—didn't even know they came in this size."

There is amusement in Sadi's voice. "It was custom-built; some of my family are rather unique and require additional space for comfort when traveling."

He has heard rumors that the SaDiablos visit Sceval and its rare race of unicorns at least once a year. Jak has also been told that one of Jaenelle Angelline's estates is a training ground for Scelties. _Unique_ , indeed.

"Am I still in one piece?" He wiggles his toes in his boots. 

"Lady Theia insisted that you not travel until a Healer vouched for your well-being. Unfortunately, the only Healer in Havenstry is visiting family in another area of Ciraea."

He grimaces. "Theia called Moira, didn't she?"

"Though we were not introduced, yes, I believe that was her name." 

When Sadi asks sharply as Jakob slides a hand south, "What are you doing?" he answers, "Making sure I really _am_ intact. Moira's skilled enough—her mother was the local Healer many years back—but she's got an aversion for most cock and balls in town."

"She appeared to tolerate touching you."

He chuckles, wincing at the rawness of his throat. "Trust me, I'm one of the few that has only met with the lashing of her sharp tongue and not her temper. I like to think that I'm pardoned by my age." He sighs. "She's a special woman."

"Black Widows usually are." Jak is too tired to decipher the undercurrent in Sadi's tone.

"How long until we arrive?"

"Two candle marks."

"I never liked Mist Falls," he mumbles. Damn, he _is_ tired. "That's where I died, well sort of. D-did you cast a sleep spell on me?"

He barely catches Sadi's reply. The Warlord Prince says something about a wound being easier to heal once it has bled freely and Jak thinks, _But I'm not bleeding, am I?_

Wouldn't he know if he was?

Then Jakob sinks back into cool, sweet darkness, that last thought floating away.

  
  


**4 / Ebon Askavi**

Lucivar lands in a courtyard of Ebon Askavi, knowing that he needs to report to his Queen and her Steward—despite the unofficial capacity of Jaenelle Angelline's Court.

He walks into a sitting room next to his father's suite and is immediately bombarded by "Papa!"

His young son pelts into his legs but Lucivar is firmly planted, with just a hint of Craft to withstand the force that is Daemonar at full-hurdle, and is saved the indignity of falling on his ass. "Hey, boyo."

Daemonar makes a noise of disgust when Lucivar kisses the top of his head. The boy has reached an age where Lucivar's fatherly display of affection is only accepted in the form of a manly pat or through high praise of Daemonar's budding warrior talents.

Lucivar chuckles to himself and releases his son. "Where's your grandfather?"

The boy grins, eyes bright with mischief. "He said he had a headache and I had to read this book until I could remember all of it!" Daemonar runs over to a nearby desk to fetch a book and lugs it back to his father. "See? It's big 'n I said if I read all _that_ my eyes would pop outta my head 'n Grandpa said that's okay 'cuz we'd figure out how to put 'em back in but could we really do that? Maybe I can wear an eye patch like a pirate, only on both eyes—!"

Lucivar places a hand firmly over his son's mouth. "Breathe," he orders.

The child does so, chest heaving dutifully, and then mumbles some more into Lucivar's hand.

When Lucivar lets him speak again, Daemonar is saying, "You were gone a really long time. Where's Uncle Daemon?"

"Your uncle is still busy. Is your mother at home?"

Daemonar shakes his head. "Mama had to buy some food and Auntie J went too."

Lucivar winces for his wife's sake. He takes his son by the shoulders and pushes him toward the desk. "Finish your book."

The boy frowns as he climbs back into his hastily abandoned chair. "I'm tired of readin'."

"Doesn't matter. Do it anyway."

Daemonar sighs like a child humoring his silly parent. "Okay. But when Grandpapa's headache is gone, he can read it to me, right? I like it when he reads—the story makes more sense."

Lucivar doubts that Saetan will recover from a Daemonar-induced headache until well after Lucivar has taken his son back to Ebon Rih. He winks at his boy and says, "Be sure to ask him first chance you get, boyo."

"Okay!" The boy rustles his wings and opens the tome to a random page. Lucivar watches, amused, as Daemonar points out each word and argues with himself over how it sounds.

He finds his father holed up in his study nursing a large glass of brandy.

"If you have a headache, why are you drinking?" asks the Eyrien.

Saetan levels a look at his son.

"Was he that bad?" Lucivar settles into a chair made to accommodate wings.

"He's your son," Saetan states. "Daemonar is exactly as I expect and no less."

"Or no worse," mutters the Eyrien.

They share a smile.

Then Saetan places his snifter to the side and steeples his fingers. "How does Daemon fare?"

Lucivar leans forward, places his forearms on his thigh and relates the situation—and all its latest complications—to the Steward of the Dark Court. When Prince Yaslana has finished his report, the High Lord uses Craft to float a new glass to his desk and pours the Eyrien a generous amount of brandy before topping off his own drink. 

They sit in silence, Lucivar content to relax after days of being on edge and his father, undoubtedly, working through the nuances of what Lucivar said—and didn't have to say.

Finally the High Lord speaks. "You've done well, Prince. I expect that Prince Sadi is prepared to conclude the situation in Ciraea."

Lucivar eyes Saetan. "That's it?"

Saetan raises an eyebrow in question. "Did you skip any details I should be aware of?"

"No."

"Then yes, Lucivar, _that is it._ Your brother is capable of handling the trouble in Ciraea—and it is our job to trust in him to do so."

"What do you think he'll do with the rogues?"

"They broke the law and, for that, a price must be paid," the High Lord says softly. "Were the ruler of Dhemlan to allow those men to walk away unpunished, it would plant a seed of doubt that Daemon may be biased."

"Because of his past," Lucivar concludes just as softly.

"Yes. Terreille may be recovering its honor now, but the long-lived races will not forget what was—and what could have been—so soon. Daemon, as do you," explains his father, "carries that stigma and, because of it, will be judged by how he rule his land more harshly than the people would judge any Queen in Kaeleer." Saetan leans back in his chair, resting long black-tinted nails against his chin. "On the other hand, were Daemon to destroy both Phaedra _and_ the rogues, people would fear him more than they already do, and that fear could lead to the same kind of rebellion that Phaedra's Court faced."

"A double-edged sword."

"Bluntly put, my fine Prince, but accurate nonetheless. Ruling has, and I imagine always shall be, a challenge."

Lucivar savors the burn of the brandy as it slides down his throat. His mouth stretches in a lazy, arrogant smile. "Good thing our family loves challenges."

Saetan says nothing, but Lucivar sees the pride in his father's eyes and savors that as much as he does the drink in his hand.

  
  


**5 / Ciraea**

"You bastard, my Sisters won't stand for the way you treat me!"

Daemon is sick of listening to the bitch. If he could have handled her the way he did Dorothea's pets in Terreille, her body would already be writhing in agony from the venom of his snake tooth—after enduring company with the Sadist. But this is not personal justice she must face, not in relation to Daemon or his family. Sadi has little choice but to act in the official capacity of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan—and as the ruling power over the Dhemlan Province Queens.

Those Queens have asked him to protect the Territory as his father did for thousands upon thousand of years. In return, he is awarded a position in keeping with that request and worthy of his power as a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince. He is the final authority in Dhemlan; liaison to the other Territories in Kaeleer; and, most importantly, the watchful eye over the Territory itself. That includes weighing the actions of each Dhemlan Queen. They trust him not to interfere with their reigns unless necessary; and if it becomes necessary, they expect Prince Sadi to react as a Queen would, fairly and with little compromise to the Blood's code of honor.

"Each of your Sisters," Daemon interjects into Phaedra's tirade, "has the opportunity to review the minute details of your life—each mark you collected and spent, the color of dress you prefer—" His eyes should be warm as they caress her body, but they are little else besides icy cold. Phaedra visibly shivers. "—every male you bedded and, of course—" He smiles pleasantly. "—the matter of your son, Jakob."

She says weakly, "You've set me up."

"No, my dear. You did that all on your own. Keep in mind, however, that what the Queens think of you does not matter to me. You are mine alone to punish as I deem fit—and I promise you, the punishment you suffer will remain in keeping with the debt you owe."

"You can't touch me! You're just a male, you don't outrank me—"

"I outrank you where it matters," he says coldly. Against the tan of his skin, the Black Jewel gleams from a fire within. "Never forget that."

 

 

Jakob is washing his face in the tight space of a small bathroom (he marvels that a Coach can have a place to piss) when there is a loud thump against the other side of the door. He opens it to find Eyan staring back at him.

The Prince shoves his way into the bathroom, not allowing Jakob to escape, and they stand almost chest to chest.

"You son of a whoring bitch," says the man. "Do you know how lucky you are, Jakob?"

"Nice to see you too," the young man replies dryly.

Eyan runs a critical eye over him. "You don't look half bad for a man who got pounded on." Then Eyan's voice fills with concern. "Are you sure that you are all right? Sadi wouldn't let us out of the Coach, even after he ordered Traye to fetch a Healer."

"I'm okay." His face heats. "Yaslana killed Nyx."

"I heard."

They stare at each other for a minute.

"Sadi says we're headed to Mist Falls."

"Yeah."

Jakob slumps against the sink counter. "Never thought I would return there to die," he mutters.

Eyan touches his shoulder. "I don't know for certain what is going to happen to us, Jak," he says, "but thank you for trying to protect the men."

"We're all here," he says bitterly. "I didn't do _any_ good, Eyan. We're here because I started this damn band in the first place!"

The Prince pulls back. "Listen well, Jakob, because I'll only say this once. Every rogue on this Coach _chose_ to join you of his free will—just as each man _chose_ to come back and face judgment. We are in this as equals. You're a fool to think otherwise." Eyan adds with a sigh, "I suppose that's why Sadi won't punish only you."

 _The reason matters little now_ , thinks Jak. They will arrive at their destination shortly and there is no way to stop what must be faced.

 

 

The Coach lands in the town square of Mist Falls. Surprisingly Sadi announces, "This is a brief stop. Stay seated." Then the Warlord Prince glides to the door, his secretary on his heels and they both exit the Coach. Jakob remains, somewhat painfully upright, next to Eyan, waiting with part curiosity and part dread.

When Sadi returns, Prince Rainier is absent. The Coach does not lift back into the Winds but rather gives a forward lurch on its wheels. The group now travels by land—which means that they are headed to a local area.

 _The Queen's Residence,_ he decides. Where else would be more appropriate to conduct this business than the origins of it all?

Somehow, that thought is not comforting. Jakob leans his back against his seat and closes his eyes. 

He must still be healing from his injuries because there is little other reason for a Warlord Prince to fall asleep when he should remain alert. Nevertheless, Jakob finds himself shaken awake by his companion and told, "We're here."

Jak ignores the protest of his ribs as he stands up. Despite that an ugly, mottled bruise has developed on his left side, no ribs seem to be broken or cracked. Nevertheless, he tries not to jostle against the other men as they file out of the Coach.

The courtyard of the Queen's residence looks the same. Jak's eyes involuntarily seek out the spot where Fallon was executed. He swallows down the bile in his throat.

Turning to Daemon Sadi, he asks, "Where do you want us?"

Sadi's voice is amused. "Unless you prefer to sleep on the stones, I would suggest that you settle inside. We'll be here for a few days."

_Oh._

Eyan prods the back of his shoulder and that prompts Jakob to follow Sadi through the front gates. Everyone else falls behind him.

 _It's your own fault, Prince._ He claimed the position as their leader so he doesn't have the right to protest when they expect him to act as a buffer. _Well,_ Jak thinks, _it's too late to fall back into the crowd now._

He wonders where the women are as he steps into the front hall of the Queen's residence and watches Sadi issue a set of commands to the startled staff. Neither Lady SaDiablo nor Phaedra have left the Coach. Or Yaslana. Where is the Eyrien?

Daemon tells those standing behind Jakob to follow the waiting servants to their rooms. Then, after Eyan has given him a last fleeting glance, Jakob walks into a side parlor on the heels of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

"My mother?" he blurts out before he thinks.

"Still in the Coach."

He nods, unsure of what else to do. Then, almost tentatively, he asks, "Why are you... waiting to destroy us?"

Daemon sits on a short couch, arms lazily draped across its back, and crosses his legs. Jakob finds a chair.

 _Looks like we're going to have a chat._ He hopes that he does not appear as nervous as he feels.

"There are many and varied reasons that I have not eliminated your little band," Prince Sadi says silkily. "The foremost reason remains that, as appointed ruler of this Territory, I would be remiss in my duties were I to simply reduce you to ashes without proper witnesses."

Shit. He didn't realize political executions would be this complicated. Jak is sorry that he asked.

Daemon smiles knowingly. "There is also the matter of your mother—and you."

"You promised that you would make her pay."

"There is a time and place for that, Prince. It will arrive sooner than you anticipate. Now, I am told there is a Healer is residence, despite that half of the staff are... elsewhere. She will be waiting to see you."

He hesitates.

Then Sadi says, "Considering the areas that she will be poking, boyo, I wouldn't make her wait too long."

Before leaving, he bows to an amused Daemon Sadi lounging in an Aristo's parlor like he belongs there.

Then again, Jak supposes that Sadi does.

  
  


6 / Ciraea

A Warlord Prince and his friend are expending energy by taking a morning walk around the grounds. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of anticipation. A new sound breaks into the subdued noises of the day; it is wheels rolling over gravel.

Eyan grabs Jakob's arm and drags him to the shady side of the Queen's gardens—and closest to the entrance. "Now we know why Sadi wanted to wait." He indicates a Coach approaching the Queen's residence.

They lean into the shadows out of habit, watching from their vantage point.

Jakob seems to be doing better, despite that he is jumpy. _Hell's fire_ , Eyan thinks. Every last rogue in this place is jumpy, anxious, or downright terrified. This waiting only amplifies their nerves.

Two witches are helped from the Coach by a footman. Beside him, Jakob makes a choked noise.

"What is it?" Eyan asks him sharply.

"That's Lady Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh," whispers the young man.

May the Darkness be merciful. What is Zhara doing in Ciraea? "Are you certain?"

"Oh yes. I saw her once when I was a child and my mother held a ball for visiting—" The words halt as easily as they started.

Eyan frowns. Where in the name of Hell would Jakob have been to meet the Queen of Amdarh?

Before he can ask, Jakob shoots him a look from beneath hooded eyes. "Never mind," says his friend. "Just trust me when I say that's who she is."

"And her friend?"

"I don't recognize her."

The women disappear through the front gates. Eyan asks almost absently, "If Queen Zhara is here, who else is due to arrive?"

Jakob says nothing. He doesn't need to. They both fear the answer.

 

 

By late evening, more guests are milling around the rooms of the Queen's residence. Jakob walks, oscillating between memories of sprinting through the corridors on coltish legs with a caretaker in pursuit and thinking of the present. These people are more than impromptu guests, he decides. Their scents hint of purpose.

 _Queens._ Each Dhemlan Queen in power—Province, District, small town. It matters not. They are here, in the largest gathering of Queens that Jakob has ever seen.

Only a summons by the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan would be obeyed so readily, so quickly that each witch arranges an hasty hiatus from her territory to come straight to Ciraea.

Daemon is preparing for the trial of the rogues. No, it's more than that. There is also the Queen of Ciraea to consider. With certainty, Jakob knows that Phaedra will face Sadi and the Dhemlan Queens as well.

He can only hope that Prince Sadi has mercy for his men—or that one of the Queens will persuade the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince to spare a few lives.

Jakob, unfortunately, has only ever lived under the rule of Queen Phaedra. His faith in that caste is based on a long, terrible experience. He hurts even now to think that one day, should he survive this encounter with Daemon Sadi, a Queen will hold his leash—or he will become an outcast of the Blood. 

 

 

It is early morning of the following day when the rogues are ordered to the council chambers of the Queen's residence. They walk into the large room to find Daemon Sadi standing in front of rows of chairs arranged in a half-circle. Those chairs are occupied. Jakob feels the weight of the stare of each Queen as he approaches Sadi, his men silently following in his footsteps.

He bows to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan.

"Prince Jakob," Prince Sadi acknowledges. With Craft, someone positions a chair to the side of the seated council, close but far enough to discourage interaction with the females. "Sit down."

There is no room for rebuke or refusal. Jakob dregs up the half-forgotten lessons of Protocol that he never completed. Without a word, he takes a seat. It is difficult to watch his men and do nothing, so Jakob clenches the sides of his chair with a bruising force. Sadi begins to talk, his voice Craft-enhanced to carry to even the servants undoubtedly crouched at keyholes.

"A Queen's will is law; those who break her laws are deemed criminal in nature. A rogue, however, is a particular brand of criminal. A rogue is a man who denies the authority of his ruler and, in Kaeleer, he is a threat to the Old Ways of the Blood."

Jakob is unable to look away from Daemon Sadi who has pinned his men with hard gold eyes.

"The power a Queen holds over her subjects should be forged with trust and accepted with honor. I will not excuse Phaedra's abuse of her position or dismiss the suffering of this province under her rule. Nor I will excuse your actions. I am the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and, by right, Phaedra answers for her crimes to me. You did not approach me for resolution—" His voice is too soft. "—and so I must assume that you deny my authority as well."

Which is probably why Sadi looks beyond pissed—so cold that Jakob expects to see ice crystals in the air.

Sadi tells them bluntly, "You retained enough sense to forgo violence on your quest; and those that would have are dead. For this reason, I will not kill you."

The Dhemlan Queens are silent but it is obvious that they are listening as intently to Prince Sadi's decision as the males in the room.

"Each of you will serve Ciraea's Queen for two years." Sadi pauses, allowing for the sharp gasps and low whispers behind him to subside. Some of the men around Jakob shift—whether in surprise or unease, he does not know. He is only aware of his own reaction: his stomach drops. To be at the mercy of another women like Phaedra…

Then Sadi continues smoothly. "Should I—or the Queen—determine that your commitment is unsatisfactory, or if you refuse these terms, then you will be exiled from Dhemlan. This is your chance, gentleman, to demonstrate that you remain worthy of trust. If you cannot prove that you are capable of accepting the leash of your ruler, then there is no Blood in all of Kaeleer who will help you." The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan's face is hard, his words unyielding.

The men barely breathe, though some of them are clearly thinking hard on his decree. If they accept banishment from Dhemlan, they will be branded for life with that mark of distrust. Because Sadi's influence stretches to most of Kaeleer as Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, former Consort in the Dark Court and, Jakob suspects, personal friend of those in power of other Territories, they will be lucky to find tolerance of their presence wherever they settle—unless of course they leave the Realm altogether.

That possibility doesn't bear thinking about.

Sadi says as his gaze passes for male to male, "The decision you make in this room will be irrevocable. I suggest that you choose wisely."

No one asks about the third option, which they all know includes paying their debt to Sadi with their life.

After a nod from each of the men, Prince Eyan bows to the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and formally replies, "We choose service. Thank you, Prince, for sparing our lives."

Sadi nods and dismisses them. Most of Jakob's former band depart from the council chamber with unsubtle haste. Only Eyan lingers near the doors, waiting for Jakob as a friend.

"Prince Jakob."

He rises and walks forward with the sensation of stepping on thin, cracked ice. _One wrong move and…_ Jakob halts within an appropriate distance and bows.

Sadi slips his hands into his trouser pockets and croons, "You are the instigator and the leader of the faction."

Though it is not a question, Jak answers, "I am."

"Then you understand that your punishment will be more severe."

"I will pay the price," he says simply.

"You will serve five years under a Queen of Witch's choosing."

His mouth drops open before he can manage to collect himself and say, "Yes, Sir."

Someone behind Sadi, one of the Queens, whispers loudly enough, " _Mother Night._ If she's a Sceltie... that poor Prince."

He feels faint. _A Kindred Queen?_

Sadi says nothing. At first, he expects that Sadi is letting his silence linger to unsettle Jak ( _a tactic which works_ , Jakob thinks) but when it stretches long enough that the Queens shift and murmur, Jak wonders what in the name of Hell Sadi is doing.

Then the side-doors to the chamber open unaided, and Jakob's mother walks in.

Even now her chin is high and her eyes are icy, her voice icier. "I am here as you _summoned_ , Prince." The way she emphasizes the 'summoned' is obvious to any person in the room; disdain for Sadi drips off of it.

Sadi smiles pleasantly in a way that makes Jakob's blood run cold with fear. The Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince finally addresses the Queens. His deep, cultured voice binds them into rapt attention. 

"Several weeks ago, you each received a copy of paperwork and accounts. I hope that you carefully reviewed the documents of Queen Phaedra's court, because if it was not clear before, the next time a Queen in my territory is accused of abuse and found guilty, there will be no excuse for ignorance of the standards you must adhere to."

He tells Phaedra, "I had another punishment planned for you, but I have decided that it shall be more appropriate at a later date. As of now, you are stripped of your title and tithes."

Jakob wants to clench his fist at his mother's sentencing, knowing that there should be more, but any outward sign of aggression means immediate death in a room full of Queens.

Then Sadi flicks a sharp glance at Jakob before re-focusing on the former Queen of Ciraea. "Now that we have addressed that issue, we must move on to a… more personal debt you owe, darling."

For the first time upon entering, Phaedra pales and sways on her feet. No one dares to offer her assistance.

"Prince Jakob, state your grievance against the Queen," the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan orders.

Jakob's mouth goes dry.

*Do it, Jakob, or she walks away,* Daemon warns quietly over a spear thread.

"I am Jakob," he says roughly, "the only child of the union between Queen Phaedra and her former Consort, Lord Eron."

"A lie!" cries the woman. "What a foul lie! My son is _dead_." Phaedra turns on Sadi before anyone else can speak. "How dare you allow this man to stand here and pose as my son!"

Sadi says mildly, "I daresay he has your looks, Phaedra—though I am sure that is not a compliment to the Prince."

"It's true," Jakob interrupts. "You are my mother and you know it—you're just upset that I didn't fall prey to death as you wished."

Phaedra levels her finger at him. "Silence! My son died tragically and too young. I won't have you dishonor his name."

 _Dishonor?_

" _I am not dead!_ " he roars back, the anger in him now hot and raging. "For so long I've been afraid of you—but not today, never again! Do you hear what I'm saying to you, Mother? _I won't let you hurt me anymore. Once was enough,_ " he says with ample bitterness.

She steps back from him, a blatant show of fear. Then Phaedra turns to her Sisters and pleads, "I beg you, stop this nonsense. Haven't I been punished already? I will never rule again!"

One Queen says, "These accusations are ludicrous. Everyone knows her Master of the Guard killed the child out of jealousy."

Another retorts, "Let the Prince speak. If he is telling the truth..."

Sadi uses Craft to enhance his voice above the arguing Queens and asks Jakob, "Who do you name as executor of the Queen's order for your death?"

The room is silent again. 

Jakob realizes that Sadi has handed him an opportunity. He doesn't intend to waste it, not when he owes Fallon for a long silence. "Prince Fallon was innocent of the crime. I was—" He swallows against the rush of memories. "—traveling home for the holidays. It was late and the fog along the river had delayed passage. When my carriage was crossing the North Bridge of Mist Falls we were overtaken."

Jak speaks quietly, reliving the night in his mind's eye. "It isn't uncommon for looters to use the fog to their advantage; anybody who lives here knows that. It never occurred to me that it was a trap, not until my warden—" He stares past Sadi to the circle of women. "—my mother's Steward, Lord Reed, who had fetched me from school, watched as the men dragged me to the edge of the bridge. One of their blades caught me here—" 

Jakob touches the scar along his jaw. 

"—when I fought back. I managed to hang onto the stone as I went over." He turns his face to the side, away from the stares. "Lord Reed reached over the side, and I thought he was going to help me—I was terrified of falling into the river—but he didn't. He pulled my hand loose and let me go. ' _I'm sorry._ ' That's what he said to me."

Jakob looks at his mother then. "' _I'm sorry,_ '" he repeats, his voice harsh.

Phaedra's voice is too calm for her expression. "I made a mistake, a terrible mistake." She puts a hand to her mouth as if horrified. "I was so sure that it was Fallon who—"

"No!" Jakob launches toward her with a cry of rage. "You bitch, it was _you!_ "

Sadi catches him easily and forces him back. " _Don't_ " is the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince's only warning. Addressing Phaedra, Sadi says softly, "Do you know what happens to mothers who kill their children?" 

"You have no proof," the witch replies. "It's his word against mine—and I deny any involvement in such an _insidious_ crime."

"Unfortunately, my dear, you are incorrect again." Sadi glides past Jakob to the still-open side doors. 

Jakob thinks, _Hell's fire, is he leaving?_

Lady Surreal SaDiablo meets Sadi at the doors. Her voice carries. "Sorry we're late, sugar. This one likes to play hide-and-seek."

Sadi's secretary appears with a man in tow.

Jakob sees that face and closes his eyes at a burning in his chest. Phaedra, on the other hand, sees the man and recoils as if struck.

Lord Reed almost lands at Prince Sadi's feet when Lady SaDiablo gives the man a none-too-gentle forward shove. Jakob thinks that Sadi uses a bit of Craft to steady the Warlord but considering the pallor of Reed's face, Jak doubts that the gesture is made out of good will.

Reed trails behind Daemon, jerking like a puppet on a string, as they re-situate themselves before the circle of Queens.

Sadi croons, "Lord Reed, I am going to ask you a very simple question. If you lie to me, then you will be asked the same question again—by my wife." Daemon Sadi looks only at the Warlord, but his words are meant as a warning to all. "Until now, I have accommodated my schedule to handle this situation. Two days ago, I missed a play which my wife desired to see. She is very unhappy. I would love to finish this quickly, Warlord, if only to prevent Witch from deciding to end it." His voice borders on pleasant. "Now. With whom would you rather speak?"

Reed nods helplessly at Sadi.

"Excellent. Who issued the order to attack Phaedra's son?"

"Please," whispers the Warlord in a strained voice. "I can't."

"Who?" croons the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.

"I've sworn an oath..."

Phaedra calls out, "Reed!" The Warlord flinches.

" _Who?_ "

"My Queen," the man says at last. Then he gives a great heave of breath and sinks to his knees. "I'm sorry, Phae. I'm sorry," he says again and again.

Jakob's stomach roils at the words. He takes two steps back, wanting to be anywhere but here listening to the echo of a nightmare. His mother has thrown herself at Reed, and when she tries to rake his face with her nails—and Reed doesn't shrink away from her fury—an invisible blow sends the witch sprawling at the feet of her Sisters.

One Dhemlan Queen rises after another until they are all standing. 

It is Zhara, the Queen of Amdarh, who speaks. "Prince Sadi," she states in a strained voice, "we came to hear judgment passed on the Queen of Ciraea and the rogues. Phaedra's—" Zhara's face twists with disgust. "—personal crime, though repugnant as it is, is not something for which we can demand justice."

Zhara looks Jakob. "That price is yours for the asking, Prince Jakob."

His muscles relax and the words come easily. "Daemon Sadi has offered to collect the debt on my behalf and I accepted." 

The Queen of Amdarh stares at him for a moment. Then, "Very well." She gives Phaedra a wide berth, the other Queens following suit.

Zhara nods to Sadi once and offers, "I and my Sisters will compile a list of names for Phaedra's replacement."

"Your choices shall be considered," the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan replies. He offers them no guarantees.

When the Dhemlan Queens are gone, Jakob staggers on unsteady legs to a vacant chair. He ignores everyone and puts his head in his hands. It is some minutes before a light pressure settles on his shoulder. He looks up, bleary-eyed and feeling inexplicably weary, at Eyan.

His friend crouches next to him. "How can I help, Jak?"

His brain takes too long to comprehend the question. "I'm—I'm not sure what you want me to say."

Eyan gives him a strange look. "I wasn't asking for myself, you idiot." Eyan gestures to Sadi, who is standing guard over Phaedra and Reed. "Do you need... help with that? Or do you want to go? I can ask Prince Sadi if—"

Jakob straightens from his slump. "Shit, I forgot." He sighs and walks over to Lord Reed.

The Warlord barely acknowledges the new presence. He looks broken.

Jakob asks Daemon, "What happens to him now?"

"Do you want the kill?" the Warlord Prince responds.

He swallows. "No."

Sadi considers him. 

"Everything has a price," Reed interrupts quietly. The man stares up at Jakob. "I know that I have no right to ask, but I beg mercy of you."

Jak picks up on the strong scent of Eyan's disbelief and disgust. He asks Reed, "Would you beg that your life be spared?"

"No," the Warlord answers, surprising him. "Let me return to the Darkness."

Suddenly, he understands. Reed is afraid of being condemned to live with his guilt until he dies of old age. A small part of Jakob wants the man to suffer, but a larger part of him already knows the right answer.

He nods. Before he can change his mind, Jakob uses the strength of his Sapphire power for a fast kill, shattering the man's light Jewel, breaking open his inner barriers and turning that brain to dust with a thought even as he consumes the rest of the man's lingering power.

Reed lands on his side, eyes open and empty. When Jakob sees the almost peaceful look on that face, something within him breaks open, like an old wound. He gasps at the pain of it.

Eyan is turning him around by the shoulders, talking in a quiet coaxing voice. "C'mon, Jak, let's go home. Let's go now."

He follows numbly, hardly aware of a deep voice behind him saying, "Find Rainier and he will take you to a Coach." Jakob does stop at the sound of his name.

The Warlord Prince of Dhemlan tells him, "In three weeks' time, I expect you at SaDiablo Hall."

Jakob might have said "Yes, Sir" or "Okay" or nothing at all. His mind is only focused on returning to Theia, because the pain in his chest is always soothed when she is near.

 

 

He sleeps sporadically, waking to find Eyan seated across from him, looking at Jak as if he were a stranger. The Coach ride is surprisingly smooth and quiet; in a lull of stilted conversation, Jakob consoles himself with memories of a warm tavern and a large glass of ale.

The Coach takes the pair of men from Havenstry's main landing web to the doors of the Rose & Thorn Inn. Eyan is smart enough to stay seated as Jakob bolts out of the Coach and to the boardwalk. The young man pushes into the front hallway of the inn with urgency and a tremor in his hands.

Theia takes a last step off of the staircase, wiping her hands on her dress. "Jakob?" Then he is in her arms and the world falls apart.

Beyond the sound of his own keening and pain exploding through his chest, Jakob feels the soothing stroke of a hand on his hair and knows that he is home.

  
  


**7 / Ciraea**

Daemon releases the spell that binds Phaedra from escape. The witch immediately darts for the closest door and finds her bathroom Black-locked. He watches in amusement as she then scatters items across her vanity, searching desperately for a weapon.

"A fruitless venture, I promise you," a hint of the Sadist croons in his deep, cultured voice.

The bitch turns to watch Daemon as he idly leans against a tall bedpost and inspects his long black-tinted nails. Then she looks past him to the bed. Her skin bleaches of color.

His voice is cold. "Don't flatter yourself."

Phaedra swallows. "Then you... won't break me?"

"I don't need a cock to break you." He slips his hands into his trouser pockets. "But yes, before I finish the kill, I will shatter your Opal and drain the remnants of your power." His smile is malevolent. "Although, I considered helping you make the transition to demon-dead. Few living would believe so, but the mind of a demon is still very sharp—and your head is the only part that the High Lord will need to extract the remainder of the debt."

"You don't need to... do anything," she tries to assure him. "I understand what I've done! I feel so _terrible_ , so _guilty_."

He is tempted to rip out her vocal chords but then he wouldn't be able to hear the bitch beg in madness later on. Instead, Daemon loosens his choke-hold on his sexual heat just enough to produce a feeling in the air that will distract her.

When Phaedra's eyes begin to glaze, a phantom hand runs down the curve of her hip. Daemon's mouth smiles but his eyes are hard gold. 

"What do you want?" asks the woman, wetting her lips.

"What I always have, sweetheart." He beckons her closer with a crook of his finger. She is helpless to obey and creeps within range of him, her body now betraying her arousal. Daemon fixes a sleepy look on her.

She repeats, a shaky whisper, "What do you want?"

The Sadist murmurs like a lover's caress, "To teach _bitches_ like you the proper meaning of suffering."

By the end of the night, the former Queen of Ciraea has screamed until her voice is gone.

Then Daemon Sadi determines that the initial payment of Jakob's debt has been extricated, and it is the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan who calls in a box. He releases the spelled lock and gingerly removes a shimmering dark web.

The mess of a woman on the bed whimpers. Prince Sadi soothes her with, "Hush, darling. This will only hurt in your mind." A drop of his blood causes the web to glow and pulse. He engages the spell, watches as it slips beneath her inner barriers and hooks into Phaedra's core, dragging her into a Hell of her own making.

If she rises from it whole, he decides that he shall hand over the pieces of her to his father after all. With a pleasant smile, Daemon settles into a plush chair to wait for the outcome.


	10. Epilogue

  
**Kaeleer**

_three weeks later_  


_Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful._

Ebon Askavi—the Black Mountain—is an appropriate name for this place. Jakob stops walking when he thinks that he spies a ripple of a deep shadow. _But a shadow isn't supposed to move unless it belongs to someone!_ he wants to argue, heart thudding with a nervousness that his brain can't quite classify.

"Prince."

That deep voice, an almost pitch-perfect match to Sadi's, reclaims his attention. Jakob hurries to catch up to the High Lord.

Shit, he's being escorted by the High Lord through Ebon Askavi. Jakob guesses that he should be grateful this isn't a personal tour through Hell. The young man shudders.

As if reading his thoughts, the High Lord chuckles. "The Keep can intimidate even the most powerful of the Blood."

With a side-long glance, he asks, "Like you?"

 _Is it good or bad that the High Lord finds him humorous?_

Once the echo of Saetan Daemon SaDiablo's laughter has died out in the wide, deep halls they transverse, the man admits, "There was a time, puppy, when I hesitated before crossing the threshold of Ebon Askavi. I still do on occasion—though for vastly different reasons." 

Jakob isn't sure how to interpret those words of the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince; he guesses that he is not supposed to understand. Then there is no more time for contemplation because they stop at a set of thick, grandly carved doors.

The doors open without prompting. 

The High Lord tells him, "The Lady wishes to meet you, Prince." There is a subtle warning within the words.

Jakob gives a jerky nod of thanks before walking into the room beyond.

Daemon Sadi turns. A golden-haired woman at his side falls silent and her face angles toward him.

Those _eyes_. Ancient, _fathomless_ eyes. 

Jakob doesn't know how long they hold onto him, pulling him down into a dark place where he may drown. It must have only been a split-second but it feels like a lifetime has passed once they finally release him. The Warlord Prince resurfaces and gasps for air.

"Prince Jakob, this is my wife, Lady Angelline."

He forces the greeting "I am honored, Lady," and even though his legs are rubbery, Jak manages to execute a bow without embarrassing himself.

Perhaps this state of bumbling awkwardness is something which Jaenelle Angelline is used to dealing with. She laughs quietly and says, "Welcome to Ebon Askavi, Prince."

He is distracted by the husky, soothing quality of her voice. Jakob blinks and comes back to himself.

She has asked, "Did you enjoy your tour of the Keep?"

"I'm afraid I've only seen what I could during my walk." _And all I care to see for today. My nerves can't take any more._

"How regretful. I've always thought that this place is fascinating."

"You would, darling," says her husband.

She ignores him. "We will arrange for a tour the next time you stop by."

Jakob's brain stutters to a halt. "Next... _time?_ "

Sadi's expression could almost be classified as sympathetic.

Lady Angelline says brightly, "I must return to my workroom, Daemon. Papa and I are re-creating a spell he discovered on a scroll Geoffrey had secreted away."

"Geoffrey hid it and yet Father now has the scroll in his possession?" Daemon's eyebrow lifts.

She rises and kisses him sweetly on his mouth. "Perhaps you'd better ask Papa how he managed that." The woman pauses. "On second thought, don't mention that I told you."

Sadi's voice is teasing. "I make no promises, Lady."

Jakob stands absolutely still as Daemon escorts his wife to the door. They walk past him, but the Lady stops and turns back to Jakob. Jakob does not miss the way Sadi casually shifts to place himself between her and the young male. He also does not miss the narrowing of Sadi's eyes or the feeling that he would never see a fatal strike coming.

Lady Angelline looks him over once, slowly, then lifts her lovely blue eyes to his. "You've been hurt," she says softly.

He fumbles. "Well, yes. But that was weeks ago, Lady. I am healed now."

Her look is unreadable and her voice like midnight when she replies, "The wound is not quite healed, Prince, _but it will heal_."

Jakob nods, not really understanding.

Then Witch turns and walks out of the room.

Daemon returns and motions him to a chair behind a desk. "My wife has selected the Queen whom you will serve for the next five years," the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan states without preamble.

Jakob's heart is in his throat as he sinks into the chair. "Does she have fur?" he asks helplessly.

The ring of Prince Daemon Sadi's full-bodied laughter stays with Jakob long after he eases into a soft bed in one of the Keep's guest rooms. The man drifts into sleep, a mixture of exhaustion and the brandy Daemon had provided working against him. Jakob thinks fuzzily of the next five years in service to a Queen. To his surprise, the dread he has carried for too long has dispersed into something similar to acceptance—to determination. 

Witch chose her.

How bad can this Queen be?

_The End_


End file.
